


Those Saved

by QiQiShi



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 61,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23885062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QiQiShi/pseuds/QiQiShi
Summary: The saying goes something like this: “Envy is thin because it bites but never eats.”Johnny brings lambs to slaughter for the common good. Haechan, the accomplice, just wants to taste glory.
Relationships: Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun/Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung, Lee Donghyuck | Haechan & Mark Lee, Lee Taeyong & Suh Youngho | Johnny, Mark Lee & Lee Taeyong, Mark Lee/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 156
Kudos: 176





	1. Haechan: The Accomplice

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all who venture in to read! 
> 
> This is my first fanfic and I hope you'll enjoy! 
> 
> Please let me know if I'm missing any tags!

It’s not karma. 

Haechan stamps down on any bouts of self-pity and _woe-is-me_ feelings of despair as he reads and re-reads; trying desperately and failing horribly to maintain some semblance of decorum despite the overwhelming urge to cry. 

Jot it down folks. 10:26AM, the beginning of the end. 

He stands up quickly, pushing away from his desk in one, quick, jerky movement, feeling for his chamber key with shaky hands, powering through the budding tears clouding his vision. 

A walk will help. 

He grabs for his wallet, pulls his jacket off the coat rack, and steps out of his office, leaving the door cracked and lights on. 

It’s not his money. 

“I’ll be back in ten,” he grunts out to the receptionist, he forgets her name, Eun Bi or Yoona or Minha - he’s sure it’s one of the three, who simply nods her head in acknowledgement, pulling a face as he pulls his jacket on. She’s not _his_ receptionist, and he normally never speaks to her, but he can use some form of camaraderie right now, even if it’s terribly one-sided. 

“I’ll let Director Jung know if he asks.”

Haechan almost smiles. 

The elevator ride down to the plaza is long and harsh, the 20th floor no longer a glamorous, envious thing. It’s tiresome, tedious, a _burden_ , on a day like this. 

He gets his cigs and lighter ready, he needs a smoke -- that’ll calm him down. 

And he tries not to think about _it_ or _anything_ , but eleven floors in and he’s mentally back in his office, reading through his digital crucification. His stomach churning and his heart pounding. Sweat beading along his brow. 

How humiliating. 

By God, Haechan _hates_ Taeyong. 

And Haechan knows that ‘hate’ is a strong word. 

Yet, with Taeyong, he can’t seem to find reason to disagree. 

It helps that Taeyong hates him too, which, in some sick, twisted way, causes Haechan to bleed with a sense of rightness, and righteousness at his own ‘checkmate’ of hatred flowing right back. 

And it’s foolish, he knows it is, because Taeyong could _destroy_ him if he were allowed to, and Haechan would be hard pressed to prevent it. Sure, he’d clawed his way to the top on pure effort and output alone, but there were things even effort and sincerity couldn’t atone for. And even though Haechan doesn’t _personally_ feel as if he’s got anything to apologize for, he knows Taeyong sees things differently -- the problem here is the disconnect. Taeyong wants him to apologize for more than Haechan can truly be blamed, though honestly, none of it’s ever been his fault...at least not _entirely_. 

No --- not at all. Haechan couldn’t afford to give inches which turn into miles which turn into advantages. 

No matter what anyone said, no matter what any of the useless office secretaries _gossip_ , Haechan _hadn’t_ done anything wrong. 

This, here today, was simply _incompetence_ \-- _other_ people’s incompetence, which had no relation to Haechan’s own. 

It pained him that Taeyong couldn’t see that -- _refused_ to see it, and would never accept it as the truth, simply because he hated Haechan. Hated him with an irrevocable passion for no real reason other than the fact that Haechan was still employed by Muse:Seoul and his precious little Mark Lee _wasn’t_. 

And Haechan wouldn’t apologize for that. Couldn’t. 

That was Taeyong’s issue and his alone. He certainly couldn’t _fire_ Haechan over it, though he was sure Taeyong wanted to. 

In-fact, Haechan is sure Taeyong has tried, is likely still trying. 

He can imagine it, _likes_ to even, in the smug way that makes you feel warm all over-- a perfect blend of memory and imagination playing like a movie reel in his mind: Taeyong, his signature pink hair and causal smokey eyeliner in a rushed quick-step towards Johnny’s office, pink-slip in hand at the slightest sign of push-back from Haechan. Still bleeding, infuriated and _hurt_ , all these months later, that his little protege had left --no, been _dismissed_ , from Muse:Seoul. Offering, bargaining, pleading that Haechan should be the one to go instead, they could still try to get Mark back. 

And because Johnny loved Taeyong in the way that only brothers love each other, he’d pretend to consider it before firmly saying ‘no,’ and Taeyong would be indignant -- _devastated_ even, that Johnny could see _anything_ in Haechan when he couldn’t, and nothing in Mark when he could. 

Haechan is grateful for that. 

As long as Johnny Seo is CEO and believes in Haechan’s ability to thrive and advance, that’s all that matters. Taeyong needs to build a bridge and get over it. Haechan is sure there are _rules_ around such obvious workplace favoritism and antagonism. He won’t be mentally bullied by Taeyong on this. 

No. Haechan was _never_ going to let **'Paint by Wong'** host and he was _never_ going to let Mark Lee, of _all_ fucking people get the praise and notoriety -- the _credit_ , for bringing the two competing artist management entities together.

Haechan has to calm down.

Has to ignore all the insinuations permeating Taeyong’s email, the silent gloat behind the words; the eagerness to point out Haechan’s inabilities, his failures. His subtle implying that they should've just “let Paint By Wong host” which is really just code for: ‘you should've just let Mark do it,' an obvious throwback to a time when both he and Mark were just interns under Taeyong in the Artist Development and Markerting team and Taeyong would assign any and everything worth doing to Mark in a way that bugged the absolute _fuck_ out of him. 

It wasn’t just that Taeyong would give Mark all the best projects, he’d given Mark the best of _everything_ there had been to give. And it wouldn’t have bothered Haechan if he’d felt like Taeyong paid them the same amount of attention but had simply _misunderstood_ his interests and was too busy to correct himself; if he had come to Haechan back then, and said he found him quite clever in his time and project management skills and _that’s_ why he got stuck with everything boring -- Taeyong couldn’t trust the other interns on staff in the same way he could trust Haechan. That? Well, Haechan could accept _that_. 

Except, that hadn’t been the case. 

For starters, Taeyong didn’t ever seem to like _anything_ Haechan did or even how he did it -- and he always acted like it was some great inherent fault of Haechan’s that he lacked the ability to please him. There was always a complaint, always a criticism when Haechan did absolutely anything: You’re filing old records? You’ve dated them wrong. You’ve ordered sushi for lunch? Everyone knows I _only_ eat Sashimi. 

And the band plays on. 

The real reason Haechan had been stuck filing old records and changing ink cartridges was because Taeyong thought Mark, _too good_ for that type of low-level work. Mark couldn’t be expected to dirty his delicate hands or bore his exceptional mind with such menial tasks. No, Mark was there for the fabulous things and Taeyong praised him for simply existing. Mark?! Bravo! C’est magnifique! Praise be to God! 

Haechan had been left with the grunt work, sent on coffee runs and office supply pick-ups and lunch pick-ups and dry-cleaning runs -- always running at light-speed towards dead-ends. Far away from the glitz and glamour he’d signed up for. Taeyong hadn’t made it easy for him to succeed. Piling his desk high with menial tasks that offered minimal thanks. Content to simply wave him away after a long day's work. No, Taeyong had never done anything for Haechan -- he’d had to claw his way in-front of Johnny Seo, who, before that fateful night, hadn't even known he _existed_. And from there, he then had to perfect the act of hanging on for dear life without seeming desperate. 

And of course Johnny knew who _Mark_ was. Had heard _all_ about him. And Haechan could hear the implications there -- the obvious warning that Haechan had to do more, had to do better, even if he couldn’t _be_ better. 

Haechan guesses the term “on a silver platter” was birthed by people like Mark. 

Mark, who had been sent to collect works from clients for cleanings, asked to take notes at lunch meetings held in five-star restaurants over seven-course meals. Mark, who was sent to Paris to do an in-person interview with an esteemed collector, and then LA to pick up a new piece from an up-and-coming artist. Mark. 

Haechan had spent what was pretty much the whole summer playing second fiddle to Mark which was just an additional few months on the lifetime he’d spent thus far. Haechan could live with that. Haechan would grin and bear it because that’s all he could do. His time would come. He’d been sure of it. Mark wasn’t perfect, Mark wasn’t _that_ great, and surely someone would see it. Jaehyun would see it. And all would work itself out. 

The second fiddle gets the first chair in the end -- all is right in the world. Good things really _do_ come to those who wait. 

Well, actually….

No. 

Invalid. 

User Error. 

There is no Cinderella moment. Haechan’s pumpkins rot while waiting and the mice simply scamper on. 

_I’d like to extend a heartfelt congratulations to Mark Lee, intern in our Artist Development and Marketing unit on being selected as this year’s Gallery Guide for the Muse:Seoul 2019 Gala. Mark will get hands-on experience working with the Muse:Seoul Curating, Marketing, Public Relations, Sales, Artist Management, and Business Development teams in preparation for Muse:Seoul’s most important night of the year! Mark, who speaks Korean, English and French, will join the ‘international’ guide team, assisting and guiding visitors from Canada, the United States of America, France and the United Kingdom. Mark was selected for his great skills in leadership, his dedication to the Muse:Seoul mission and outstanding work ethic. Please make sure to congratulate Mark when you see him in the halls!_

__

_Best,_  
_Lee Taeyong_  
_Senior Executive Vice President_  
_Muse:Seoul_

__

While Mark got to plan and ‘envision’ Haechan was stuck confirming plus ones and noting food allergies. 

No. This certainly isn’t karma. 

Haechan had paid his dues in full. 


	2. Johnny: Lambs to Slaughter

Johnny isn’t a fan of the way he’s portrayed. It’s not just the gossip rags and the business competition, it’s internally too -- within the walls of his own company, his very own staff. 

Everyone always uses such harsh words to describe him:  
Brutal  
Ruthless  
Cold  
Uncompromising

And he’s not saying any of it’s _untrue_ , but surely even his own staff could throw in an anecdote or two about how’d he been nice _that one time_ so he didn’t sound as bad as he actually was. Not that it was bad for business, being known as stern and uncompromising when it came to his company’s survival, but, still, it was the principle of it all. Some middle ground between a total scrooge and the wealthy, eccentric uncle was his preference. 

With a slight bias towards Scrooge. 

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t be nice, it was that he _couldn’t_ be nice. Not in this industry. 

Johnny clicks out of the ‘Art Week’ article -- ‘A Spotlight On The Top 10 CEOs Within Art' and settles back into his inbox. It’s rarely as full as people might suspect. His secretary, Ten, quickly filtering away anything that Johnny doesn’t necessarily _need_ to see. Squabbles of cold coffee and dirty dishes in the communal kitchens? Leave that to the directors in mid-management. Discussions of standardized font and debates on PMS 3255 vs PMS 3258? Definitely, _solely_ an issue for the Senior Director in Graphics and Creative Services. The timing of the weekly email about employee timesheets? Leave that for HR and Payroll to figure out. 

This email from Taeyong titled ‘URGENT: Status Review: MS & PBW collaboration/ MOU meeting” with a high-importance tag? Well, yeah, this was something he could deign to take a look at. 

The email is short, curt and utterly scathing. Taeyong doesn’t mince words; he’s not ‘alluding’ to any sort of displeasure or reluctance, he’s stating it as a matter of fact. Johnny sees his name thrown around for added impact, the threat that ‘Johnny will hear of this' looming in the digital, pixelated air. 

Taeyong rarely copies Johnny into anything unless he’s particularly upset about it, more prone to simply barging into his office, printed copies of whatever memo or article or unfollowed instruction has gotten him in a tiff, in hand. 

He’s bcc’d in - the main protagonist of the story, Haechan, sits alone in the ‘To:’ line. Jaehyun, and Doyoung are cc’d. 

Johnny sighs. 

Oh Haechan. 

And while the email’s contents are alarming, Johnny _isn’t_ mad at Haechan, he’s not even a little bit peeved. 

Taeyong is, as always, overreacting. Disappointed and disillusioned by everyone and everything. Haechan would get better. He’d improve. Taeyong just needed to give him more time, needed to be more patient. Provide more guidance. 

The problem is, Taeyong is stubborn. He didn’t _want_ to be patient and couldn’t be _bothered_ to give guidance. He didn’t want to wait for Haechan to get better, do better, he wanted him to be perfect _now_. And really, if Johnny was thinking objectively, if he was thinking critically, Taeyong had only assigned this project to Haechan for the very reason he knew Haechan _couldn’t_ do it. Had given him Jaehyun, in some perverted game of ‘laziest and most irresponsible director on staff’ to supervise him. If the project was failing, well, _technically_ that was on Taeyong. 

And he’ll never think this out-loud, he’ll never ‘bounce’ this idea around with Ten or Doyoung or Taeil because they’d tell Taeyong and that’d be dangerous. Taeyong certainly couldn’t _know_ Johnny felt he was dragging out his own misery by constantly comparing what he had and what he didn’t. 

Johnny hated when they got into discussions about what he didn’t have. Taeyong’s dreams were flighty and far-fetched and he is always the first to ignore a gift when it's so clearly presented. Taeyong could be so very selfish in that way, if Johnny let him. 

Haechan had _saved_ them. 

Haechan _wasn’t_ the burden Taeyong made him out to be, and it’s not to say that Taeyong was some evil-stepmother, but he tended to _nag_ at the boy in a way that hurt even Johnny’s few, low-functioning feelings. 

Haechan would never be good enough for him in principle. Haechan was too… _Haechan_ and Johnny knew from the moment he hired him and assigned him to Taeyong’s team, it’d never truly work out. Though, he hadn’t hired him for any particular reason other than he knew in his heart of hearts Haechan would _do_ when it came down to it, and Johnny desperately needed someone to _do_ \-- he certainly couldn’t himself. 

Johnny’s not foolish. He understood, in a roundabout fashion, Taeyong’s position -- remembers the finger firmly in his chest and the solemn quiet over the room. Taeyong is loud and hurt and he’s roaring to Johnny about everything wrong with _him_ , everything wrong with everything. And in every way that’s ethical and moral, Taeyong is _right_. 

But Johnny can’t help him. He _has_ to do this. 

And Taeyong -- he’s absolutely _devastated_ by all of it and nothing in particular. 

Haechan, _has_ to stay; and for _once_ , with Taeyong, Johnny is firm and uncompromising; a mountain when he’s typically slipping sand. 

It’s the first time Johnny’s ever felt insecure. All the eyes in the room are on him, not in admiration or reverence, but curious. Questioning. 

And suddenly, just like that, Johnny is so upset, so angry at Taeyong for making him choose in this horrible manner. It _wasn’t_ Johnny’s fault Taeyong had gone and gotten himself attached. 

Not when Johnny had warned him, had told him; when Taeyong _knew_ better. 

Ten saunters in with a stack of papers for signature, a glass of cold water and two tylenols in a serving dish. 

His face is blank of any known bias, though Johnny’s sure he’s been chatting and texting Taeyong all morning. 

“Do you want me to schedule a meeting with Wong?” 

Johnny raises a brow. 

“Well, Taeyong is stressing about it, and he’s right...them being on the board, you know, they’re always looking for weakness” 

And Johnny scoffs at that. 

Taeyong was _such_ a fucking pain in the ass. Always manipulating, always looking for ways to get what he wanted. There was no going back on this, Taeyong _knew_ that. Fighting it was a lost cause. 

“Well,” Ten starts, breaking the silence, the patented ‘know-it-all' lilt to his tone putting Johnny at ease, “Haechan’s always fucking _something_ up you know...he’s like, the worst hire you’ve ever had, he’s definitely one of those ‘interviews well’ types.” 

And Johnny scoffs again. Haechan hadn’t interviewed well at all. 

Johnny remembers it clearly: ‘Selection Day,’and a classroom's worth of art hopefuls, their speeches on Picasso and Georgia O'Keefe ready. Immature plans to impress a man, who _was_ art, on art, as if such a thing was possible. 

He’d been bored the first 10 interviews, jotting down silly little notes on candidates he’d never call back.

Julie? Juliette? - Bought unstapled, 3 page CV in a red manilla folder.  
Steven? Goes by Steve. - Played cricket/curling/crew? Sport starts w/ ‘c’. 

On the bright-side, there had been Mark. 

Johnny would’ve been a fool to pretend anything about Mark had been normal or ordinary. He was a vision. Smart and gentle and lovely. Perfect, or as close to perfect as one could get. He reminded Johnny of Taeyong in some ways-- that ethereal quality Taeyong had; captivating and awe-inspiring in a manner that overwhelmed and overpowered you instantly. 

Johnny knew right then, that Mark was the one; had damn near hired him on the spot. Didn’t because he hadn’t wanted to seem too eager. 

Imagine it. 

And then there had been Haechan: Slightly jilted, slightly insecure, but utterly and wholly willing. 

His interview had been more about Mark than Mark’s own. And Johnny saw it there, the way he talked about his friend with a sort of hated reverence and unwilling deferment. Self-regulated to, and unanimously confirmed, as the lesser of the two.

_This_ was the missing piece of the puzzle. 

Let the chips fall where they may. 

“Taeyong thinks you give Haechan too many breaks,” Ten’s talking again, and Johnny forces himself to listen. “Say’s you always gave Haechan the benefit of the doubt but you never gave it to Mark...” 

“I did,” Johnny grunts out. 

He didn’t. He _couldn’t_. 

“...and I don’t want to _gossip_ or anything, but Mark was really one in a million and everyone was waiting for him to get the work invitation, so, like, when he didn’t, I mean, honestly the other interns started panicking. If Mark wasn’t guaranteed a job then what does that mean for the rest of them? I think Jaemin had a heart attack or at least a panic attack -- that’s what Doyoung said anyway.” 

“Mark got a job elsewhere,” Johnny responds, curt and to the point. He’s not doing this with Taeyong again. Using Ten as a proxy won’t work.

What’s done can’t be undone; Mark had made his own choices too. 

Albeit…. 

Well, this wasn’t the time to get into the technicalities of what was moral and ethical. 

“...you know, you’re the big-boss, you’ve been doing this for a long time, but Taeyong just felt like you never saw all of Mark’s great points, and just because he…” 

Ten pauses, thinks on it for a bit, before letting it go. “Well, anyways, your meeting with Taeyong is in five, New York has been rescheduled for 2:30” 

He leaves as quietly as he came. 

Johnny hates when Ten is upset with him. Especially when he can’t find reason to be upset with himself. He _knows_ the whole thing was fucked up and awful. But rules were rules, were they not? Even if Johnny was only abiding by them to get his way, there were rules. Ten and Doyoung could get on his ass every other day about some bullshit technicality in some compliance document, but Johnny actually follows one workplace rule, for _once_ and suddenly, he’s the bad guy?

And yes, he _knows_ that these circumstances are different. He’d pretty much led the lamb to the slaughter here. Had facilitated it even; had boxed Mark in from the onset. Had put him in the most impossible of situations and ignored his cries and pleas for help. Relied on Mark’s gentle nature and obedient disposition to do the rest. Mark was going to break the rules, would be forced too. And Johnny would let it happen because it would benefit him. 

It would benefit everyone. 

Johnny had been doing it all for a good cause. This wasn’t a Super Hero movie, sometimes you had to bargain a life for another. And he felt _bad_ about it, he truly did. But feeling bad about it wouldn’t _change_ anything, and so he tried not to feel too bad about it after all. Shitty? Yes. Illegal? No. 

And in the end, well, wasn’t Mark doing just fine? 

Johnny leans back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling. 

Taeyong had always gotten Johnny wrong in that regard.

Johnny had seen _everything_ in Mark. 

Survival, though, hinged on Haechan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone, thanks for your interest in the story. Please leave kudos or comments if you'd like or subscribe even. 
> 
> Thanks so much!


	3. Ten: Private Eyes

Ten liked to play up the hot, but dumb, secretary stereotype when it suited him. Could pretend he was only the Executive Assistant because he was fucking Johnny despite the fact that he’d graduated top of his class back in business school at NYU, and also, _wasn’t_ fucking Johnny. 

And despite his reputation as a gossip, Ten really was more a listener than a talker -- he was proud of the moniker regardless though; there was nothing wrong with a little bout of gossip here and there.

The long-standing, and, in his opinion, _highly unnecessary_ view of the capacities, _or lack thereof_ , for those who were young, highly attractive, and employed in assistance roles to the rich and powerful, made it easy, for whatever reason, for people to feel comfortable breaking their masks of professionalism. Most of which were pretty thin and translucent to begin with. But Ten could keep secrets, could go to the grave with them. 

And he wouldn’t say he was some great information extractor. He didn’t necessarily know how or when to probe. Wasn’t great at follow-up questions and ‘circling back around’. No, his talent was in his ability to smile and nod and point out, in the same lowly way they saw it, his title. Ten Leechaiyapornkul: Executive Assistant. 

He was privy to gossip because they trusted him not to know what to do with it. The long-standing cliche of the dumb assistant holding firm. 

They could tell him about meetings with clients they fucked up, accounts they charged when they shouldn’t have and what Netflix feature they were watching during a team meeting, only because they _didn’t think_ him smart enough to process that those things were _wrong_. They spoke to him as if he were a child. Offering to buy him lunch and snacks, _apologizing_ to him for his proverbial ‘lot in life’ -- oh Ten, poor you, poor little dumb secretary. 

It made him laugh. 

A dollar saved he guesses. 

Ten is _always_ professional. 

He hears a random cough from down the hall. 

Anyways….

He laughs _with_ them, never at. His eyes go wide at exactly the right time and he’s perfected the bowed over, closed-eye laugh. He talks around frivolous circumstances and events. He has no stories to tell, other than their own.

  
  


The morning has been long and unending. Between Taeyong and being on the line with the Live Nation team for Muse:Seoul’s Beyonce LIVE, VIP passes, it’s been _stressful_. 

He hadn’t _intended_ to get in the middle of it, but seeing Taeyong so upset always did make Ten want to bully someone just _because_. 

And anyways, Mark was _good_. 

Ten had never put much stock in Johnny’s hiring decisions, even if people he had originally found duds, like Yuta and WinWin turned out to be decent. He was still on the fence, all these years later, about Jungwoo; Doyoung _insisted_ he had potential. Ten didn’t see it. Probably never would, though it wasn’t for him to say. 

But, Mark? Hiring Mark was about the smartest thing Muse:Seoul had ever done, even if it had been for all the wrong reasons. 

Ten remembers Mark’s intern class. Well, he remembers Mark. And the joke about how they all referred to them as Mark’s class as if the others were so inconsequential. 

And they were, weren’t they, in a way? 

Well....there had been Haechan, who turned out not to be so inconsequential after all, but Ten had never been fond of him -- could barely remember him outside of the uncomfortable itch he felt when Haechan was around. Ten didn’t know what it meant, but it made him feel exposed; caused him to be more guarded, more cautious. Haechan’s mask was unlike all the others, it wasn’t translucent -- it was…

Well…

Ten often found it hard to describe. A musk of rage and peace, hateful but loving. Spiteful. Caring. Resentful. Hopeful. Jealous. All of those things wrapped in one pungent package. 

It made Ten sick. 

And then of course, there was Mark, a thin and pale thing, handsome in a new way. He reminded Ten of a pixie or fairy. The way he was so unassuming but with an intense, almost magical air. Captivating from afar and enticing up-close. Mark had been different from the other interns in that way. 

Sure, he did the standard ‘hardworking’ intern things, like coming early and staying late, but he did other, little things too. Hard to describe, almost intangible. 

The other interns had liked to gossip about Mark: He was a kiss-ass, he was Taeyong’s cousin twice removed, the bastard child Mr. Seo senior had with his mistress -- they named him ‘Lee’ because it was common. Ten had always enjoyed hearing the story of the week; enjoyed seeing insecurities manifest into baseless rumors. 

Mark himself was rather easy to get to know. He enjoyed the literary, visual, theatre and musical arts, had grown up with an older brother, and his family owned a small ‘mom-and-pop’ restaurant, ‘Lee’s Kitchen” that was up to a 4.7 rating on Yelp with a modest 74 reviews. Ten promised he would visit. 

Mark was shy, humble even, if you had asked Ten his opinion, a little too obedient but not necessarily a push-over. It was interesting. Mark wasn’t the fragile, Virgin Mary type the other interns made him out to be. He didn’t uphold himself as particularly special or _better_ , vehemently denied that he was the personification of ‘perfect’. 

And well, Ten could agree to disagree. 

Mark had been perfect in every way that mattered. 

No, Mark wasn’t a pure white angel, no golden halo shimmered above his head; the celestial qualities though, shined through. Mark was divine in his own way; Johnny and Taeyong’s personal gift from the Heavens and the only proof Ten had that a God truly existed. 

And yet…

He shrugs, he’d heard The Bible too, contained such scandalous tales.  


Well...

Enough of that then. Back to work. 

And let's see, what do we have here? 

_FROM: Kun.Qian@WongGallery.org  
TO: JSeo@MuseSeoul.org  
In Seoul till noon tmrw - let’s chat_

_Boccalino tn? 7pm?  
_

Ten sighs, and makes an attempt to rub away the on-coming headache. 

Nothing about this could be good. 

_Well…_

Well. 

Ten needs a drink. Elijah Craig. Neat. 

_Before_ , this was typically when he’d text Mark _‘entertain me’_ \-- an hour and ₩50,000 later, all would be right. Ten would be tipsy, Mark wouldn’t _judge_ and they’d go back to their seats and carry on as usual. 

And great, now he’s upset all over again. 

And Ten knows Johnny’s now a bit annoyed with him too. And he should care, he _would_ normally, but Ten had _liked_ Mark, when he typically only _tolerated_ others. Taeyong wasn’t wrong to be angry and Ten wasn’t wrong to be concerned. Johnny wasn’t right just because he proclaimed himself so. 

Though, if you asked Ten to pick a side, he’d say it was slightly more complicated than that, because it went deeper than that. 

And to think, Doyoung always accused him of being too biased towards Johnny, though that’s only because Doyoung always sided with Taeyong. 

Ten thinks back to when he’d first started. It had been _awkward_ , at first, if he had to pick a word, coming in between the scary codependence that was Taeyong and Johnny. But he’d grown to love both of them in such a special way. Asking him to ‘pick’ a side was like asking him to say he preferred his right foot to the left. Impossible. They connected in different ways. Johnny was open minded and carefree, while Taeyong was accepting and lofty. Taeyong could be selfish and Johnny could be self-absorbed. 

They worked well together, operating in a way that played on their respective strengths. Taeyong was the artist, and Johnny was art. 

And while Ten would likely always be #TeamMark, he could sympathize, in an odd way, with Johnny; and maybe it was solely his foolish need to always try and absolve Johnny of his wrong-doings, and Ten _knew_ that he did that, but he couldn’t _help_ it. Johnny felt he _had_ to. And Ten couldn’t _hate_ him for that. Couldn’t stop loving him because he’d made a choice, had been _forced_ to make it. And Ten could _forgive_ Johnny for that. Taeyong could too, _had_ already. It was Johnny who was insecure about the whole thing. Paranoid and concerned that Taeyong would hate him forever, _could_ hate him forever, if he put his mind to it. 

Because Johnny _knew_. 

Johnny had to know. 

And some part of Ten, some childish, immature and vengeful, maybe even spiteful part of him, liked to think Johnny did it _just to be mean_ in that awful way Johnny sometimes got. A little jealous maybe, that Taeyong had lost the plot and found someone else to be enamored with, even though he’d known from the onset that Taeyong would glance upon Mark and never let his gaze waver. Upset at Ten for supporting it. 

He'd had his reasons for that. 

Ten tries to look bored and uninterested as Taeyong slips out of Johnny’s office. Pink hair parted, patented smokey eye done flawlessly. He uses dark brown eye-shadow and real kohl. Shoulders fighting some position other than defeat. 

He doesn’t glance at Ten, simply walks away. 

And he knows Taeyong’s not used to this. Johnny telling him, _no_. Johnny not giving into his every-whim. And Ten is sure it sucks. Taeyong could be a selfish piece of shit every other day, of every prior year, without consequence, and suddenly, the one time he’s trying to be a decent person, even if it is blanketed in selfishness, Johnny comes throwing all his previous mis-deeds and maltreatment back in his face; as if Johnny had even a pinky-toe to balance his own bull-shit on. And Ten _knows_ Taeyong is furious at all this. The fact that Johnny did something that wasn’t solely about him, about Taeyong, didn’t bend or break, couldn’t be molded to fit whatever fancy Taeyong had for the day. Taeyong is used to getting his way. Used to Johnny _giving_ him his way.

Except Mark _hadn’t_ been for the day, he could’ve been forever -- Taeyong and Johnny both knew that. 

And then Johnny had gone and decided to be _nice_? Had decided to give a shit about other people who weren’t the both of them? 

No. Ten refused to believe it. 

Johnny was full of shit. 

Mark was about nothing _but_ Johnny. Punishing Taeyong, making a statement, getting _his_ own way. Knowing that people would take his side simply because Taeyong treated everyone like the gum stuck on the bottom of his shoe, and Johnny could always find it in-himself to pretend to care at least once. 

Ten hates seeing them so out of synch. 

It’s always easier when they are treating people like shit, _together_. 

Taeyong might’ve lost the plot, but it was always Johnny who’d gone off script.


	4. Jaehyun: Feel Good Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've said this before, but some POVs you can trust more than others. Not saying Jaehyun's is more or less trust-worthy than anyone before or after him, but, giving you guys a heads up as we untangle this mystery.

_That’ll be ₩5000._

Apple pay, your time to shine. 

Jaehyun picks up the steaming cup with a sense of calm. He’s not typically a coffee drinker, but the Vanilla Latte at Felt Coffee is something he can choose to get behind. Besides, he’s going to need it. Taeyong has been _in a mood_ and it’s got the whole company cleaning out the top shelf at all his favorite Happy Hour spots. It’s _annoying._

In a way coffee is replacing alcohol for him.

He’d laugh at that if he could. 

All in all, he wishes he didn’t have to be _involved._ Wishes he cared about anything beyond his deposit hitting every-two weeks enough to actually give a damn. 

But he doesn’t. 

Call him lazy, call him uninterested but it’s what it is. Office politics weren’t his thing and he didn’t want to get in the middle of whatever squabble Johnny and Taeyong were in the midst of. He didn’t want to think about his team, Johnny, Haechan, Mark, Taeyong, _Lucas_ and the whole messy cluster-fuck of it all. 

He was more annoyed he’d lost his drinking buddy, Ten, to the bull-shit. Ten was too close to the drama to be impartial. They were still friends of course, still shot the shit whenever they could, did blow on weekends and blew money at strip clubs, but the conversations were more muted now; and really, what was the point of drinking together if they couldn’t bitch about the same things, from the _same_ point of view. 

It was _obnoxious_. Having to bite his tongue and yet not trip over his words at the same time. 

Jaehyun’s not like Ten. He doesn’t straddle whichever fence fits his agenda while pretending to be _enlightened_. If you asked him to pick a side, he’d say he’d _side_ with Taeyong, evil little shit that he was. But really, that was the only reasonable, only _respectable_ option, much as it pained him to say.

The whole thing was _bullshit_. 

Johnny suddenly caring about anyone, read like something straight out of the books of Juvenal -- pure comedy. Johnny didn’t give a _single fuck_ about any of them, maybe cared even less than Taeyong did, which was _saying_ something. Any office pencil pusher who thought he _did_ was simply delusional. Another lamb he’d bring to slaughter for his own selfish gain if given even the whiff of a chance. 

Haechan doesn’t know any better -- didn’t. 

Thinks Johnny actually...what? _Cares_ about him? 

Jaehyun _resents_ him for that. 

To be so young, to be so naive, so trusting and yet _so fucking bitter_ and _spiteful_ at the same time. 

To actually….

Goodness. Jaehyun _hates_ Haechan. 

He takes a long-sip. 

Nice. 

He hadn’t even asked for the caramel pump this time. 

See, the difference between Taeyong and Johnny is that Taeyong being absolutely horrible was _obvious_ , you couldn’t miss it. All his bad qualities shone bright like a neon light in the dark. He was beautiful to look at, sure, but that’s about where it began and ended. He didn’t mask it either. What you saw, was what you got. A beautiful human with the inability to feel _anything_ , for _anyone_ , that wasn’t himself. 

He and Ten used to joke, still do, that they should petition Webster. Put Taeyong’s picture near the word ‘Selfish’ in the dictionary. A shining example of the art in action. 

Though, Jaehyun, weird as it was, might argue that Taeyong, at the core, was ‘less bad’ than Johnny. At least with Taeyong, you _knew_ what you were getting into, you knew you were working with a selfish ass, who expected you to learn how to read his mind, and even if you did, would get mad at you for _‘reading it wrong’_. You knew there was no pleasing him, he knew it too. There was shared understanding there, odd as it was. 

The issue with Johnny was that he was too smooth. Too slick. People spoke nicely of and about him, _despite_ the fact that he’d never done anything, for any of them. Unlike Taeyong, he wasn’t very outwardly critical and obviously hard-to-please. The pencil pushers _‘liked’_ him because they had no suspicion that _he_ didn’t like _them_. Specks of dirt to simply be trampled over. Of _no_ great importance to him. 

On the other hand, if he had to pick a person, in the general sense, well…. 

Obviously Johnny. 

He liked them both. 

And he knew it was hypocritical of him, to talk shit and still _want_ to be their friend, still want them to _like_ him. But he couldn’t help it. They were the perfect pair of proverbial _mean girls_ and Jaehyun was a glutton for punishment. 

Lord, Hear Our Prayer. 

He scrolls through his inbox, rolling his eyes when he sees the ‘PBW Pre-Meeting’ invitation marked ‘high-importance’ that Taeyong’s admin, Jisung, has sent out. 

Saying he doesn’t want to go is an understatement. He couldn’t find one solitary ‘fuck’ to give about this Paint By Wong MOU -- the mission, which they had chosen to accept, was done. Mark was _gone_. In the words of Paul McCartney: Let it be. 

Haechan’s fucks up’s were _his own_. Jaehyun wouldn’t be held to them. Wouldn’t have Taeyong lord them over his head all because he was mad about what Jaehyun had or hadn’t done, _months_ ago. 

Jaehyun would atone for his sins on his own time. 

Jaehyun had to consider Jaehyun. It was either him… _them_ , or Mark. 

And, precious as Mark was, _horrible_ as Jaehyun felt, he had a _lifestyle_ to keep up, which included an overpriced, 30th floor apartment in Cheongdam _and_ a Maserati. Bills had to be paid and he still _needed_ to be able to afford expensive alcohol, and dinners at Michelin star restaurants. He’d put up with all of Johnny and Taeyong and Ten’s _bullshit_ for _years_ now -- he wasn’t going to get the short end of the stick just because Johnny and Taeyong’s chickens’ were finally trying to roost or _however_ the dumb saying went. 

By god, he couldn’t even _imagine_ it. Having to fly _coach_ to Tokyo and _not_ stay at Le Meurice in Paris, all because Taeyong didn’t want to part ways with his favorite little doll, and Johnny was too jealous and irresponsible to pull his head out of his own ass? And _yes_ , the whole witch-hunt was _dumb_ but _still_. 

Taeyong was asking a lot, as per usual, and, par the course, ready to offer _nothing_ of his own in return. 

He’d get what he wanted, and then what? 

Fuck the rest of them? 

Ha.

But you see, Jaehyun didn’t fault him for his behavior. Taeyong was floaty -- lofty. He compartmentalized easily and yet, oddly enough, at the same time, had no _real_ expectations of anyone. Disenchanted and disillusioned by everyone and everything. The heir to too many spoils and the child of too many ruins. Jaehyun could tolerate him because he didn’t _mean_ to be the way that he was. Johnny though...well, he _meant_ to be mean. With a smile. 

Jaehyun idolized him. 

The rush of adrenaline it must be.

All that power. 

All that chaos. 

By the time Jaehyun strolls into the office, Taeyong has already made himself comfortable in one of the plush guest chairs. He treats the seat like a chaise, lounging in the manner akin to some royal at their leisure. 

Prince Taeyong. 

May he turn into a fine king. 

“Did you grab one for me?” Taeyong speaks first. And Jaehyun rolls his eyes.

So demanding. So attractive. 

“Was planning on being finished before you saw it to be honest, so...no.” 

And Jaehyun can speak like this to Taeyong. Had worked his way up to this point. 

Taeyong pretends to care about anything Jaehyun is saying, ready to dive into his main concern. It’s the same agenda every week: Fire Haechan. 

And Jaehyun, _in theory_ , supports it. 

But this small victory of Taeyong not being able to get his way in the absolute and total manner he typically does...well, Jaehyun would say he’s high on it. He loves the way it makes him feel. Good inside. Good all over. There’s a song...Stephanie Mills...maybe he’ll listen later today. 

“The preparations are going terribly from what I understand, Haechan has _nothing_ finished. The meeting is in two weeks.” 

Jaehyun eyes Taeyong’s loafers. New. Berluti Scritto. He’s been eyeing the same pair. 

Jaehyun huffs. 

“At this point, does it even matter? They’re on the board now.” 

Taeyong pins him with a disgusted look. 

_Fuck._ When are quarterly reviews again? 

“I mean, at this point, legal is prepared, nothing is going to happen -- legally. They might kick up a fuss, _might_ try to cause us some trouble, but _legally_ , in a legal sense, what can they truly do?” 

Yes. That was better. 

Taeyong looks at the ceiling. A lot less disgusted than he was just a few seconds prior. 

“That’s trusting WinWin and Yuta to actually know what they’re doing…” 

And well, that’s a challenge right there isn’t it? Nothing Jaehyun says will be the _right_ answer. But per usual, Taeyong tosses him no life-saver, lends him no hands. 

“Yuta’s never let us down before and WinWin is the only mandarin speaker we have on staff -- we have to trust them, even when it’s difficult. We’re a team.” 

He’s _disgusted_ with himself. 

Taeyong smirks. And Jaehyun let’s himself chuckle. 

“You’re really full of shit” Taeyong tells him, his head tipped back, laughing heartily. 

Somehow, Jaehyun has managed to swim to shore. 

“What do you want me to say to Haechan?” Jaehyun shifts the conversation into something easier, something he can actually stand to talk about. 

“I _want_ to fire him.” 

Jaehyun sighs. 

Yes, we _know_. 

“Well,” Jaehyun starts. He’s not exactly #TeamHaechan, he’d not _mind_ getting rid of him but at the same time, well, Haechan was why he _still_ had a job. In a way, no matter how awful he was, Jaehyun couldn’t see himself simply ignoring that. 

Taeyong sits up in a huff, almost as if he can _hear_ Jaehyun’s thoughts. 

“See, this is where the lot of you’ve got it all _wrong_. Haechan,” Taeyong runs a hand through his pink, silken strands “Haechan didn’t _save_ anyone. _Mark_ did. Mark saved us.”  


And Jaehyun doesn’t know what to say to that. 

Can’t really say anything because he doesn’t agree. Can’t. 

He’ll never understand Taeyong’s point of view on this. No one will. Taeyong has to accept that. 

“Kun’s in town by the way.” 

Jaehyun freezes. 

Well. 

Taeyong lifts himself out of the chair, a smug grin smeared across his face as he heads towards the door. 

“Are you meeting with him?” Jaehyun pokes -- prods. 

Taeyong casts a bored glance over his shoulder, “Why would I?” 

You know why. 

Jaehyun simply shrugs. “And Wong’s not with him?” 

And he knows he’s encroaching on dangerous territory here. 

Taeyong smiles, it’s an angelic little thing. Evil in spirit. 

“If he was, would I be spending my time _here_ , talking to _you_?”

And Jaehyun resists the urge to _throw_ something. He settles for a chuckle. “Yeah, true.” 

Taeyong drifts out of Jaehyun’s office like smoke, the smell of him lingering in Jaehyun's senses.

Enticing. Intoxicating. 

His phone rings. 

_Caller: KIM, DOYOUNG._

And well, there are bright-spots, even on dark days.


	5. Renjun: The Holy Scribe

Renjun takes notes. 

He’s a note taker. 

He listens attentively, making sure to only hear what he’s _supposed_ to. 

When he gets directions, he follows them to the ‘T’ -- no side quests or frivolous additions -- he won’t pretend he knows his boss to that degree, and he wouldn’t make a fool of himself _pretending_ he did. He’d found the best way to get into any executives' good graces, was simply to do _exactly_ as they had asked. 

And while Kun fit into the mold rather easily, Renjun found Lucas _slightly_ more complicated than that. 

Despite the fact that he _looked_ incompetent, he was quite sharp. Lucas threw curveballs into, and dropped bombs on, ideas and strategies the team had been so wholly _sure_ of mere minutes ago; always finding the forest through the trees; picking up the little details others had dropped-- seeking clarity and understanding beyond the average person’s comprehension. 

Lucas was a God. 

All knowing and all powerful. He didn’t suggest and recommend. He directed -- he commanded. 

Renjun knew him well -- had thought of side quests that might make him happy or appease him, but had thought better of it -- for decorum’s sake. 

Lucas will never come out and tell you _exactly_ what he wants or _how_ he wants it, for some reason, he considers that these things are all just ‘common-sense’; _easily_ figured out by anyone with a pulse. 

Renjun resents that. 

He sits in the back of the conference room. Tense. Nervous. Fingers sweaty and slipping off the keys. 

He pushes through -- the notes, as always, _must_ be perfect. 

He glances at the team seated around the table, dangerous, he knows -- a typo or mistranslation could happen easily because of his own selfish need to _feel_ involved, and then he’d be done. Finished. 

Back to the trenches. 

Renjun takes solace in the fact that Kun’s still in Seoul, and so the meeting is slightly _less_ serious than usual. There is no set agenda of course, without Kun, and between XiaoJun and Hendery -- it’s just one long prattle of accomplishments they _hope_ Lucas will be impressed by. 

He isn’t.

Renjun can _always_ tell.

“Call Kun.” 

And Renjun doesn’t _need_ to be addressed formally, he knows Lucas is talking to him. He punches in the number quickly. 

+852 0506 1243

The combination of numbers is practically _sacred_. 

_“Kun.”_

And Rejun _stops_ listening -- these conversations aren’t for him to hear. He’ll jot down no notes, he’ll pretend it never even happened. 

“Renjun.” 

“Sir.” 

“Come see me.” 

And Renjun moves fast, grabs his trusty leatherbound notebook and his newest .05 Jet Pen. He too, is a God, when he has these things in hand.  
He scurries quickly, quietly. He’s not here to be _seen_ , would prefer it if he wasn’t. 

It’s easier that way. 

He smooths down the wrinkles in his blazer as he walks. 

_Looking_ competent tends to be half the battle here. 

Lucas office is like something out of the classier pages of Esquire and GQ. A penthouse high in the sky, masquerading as an office. It’s actually bigger than Renjun’s entire flat, though he imagines it feels ‘small’ by Lucas standards; his 6,000 square foot penthouse in the luxury ‘Morgan’ building on The Peak, likely makes his office here feel more akin to a closet. 

He always gets so nervous just _being_ in the room. Like he’s not _worthy_. A single pen costing half a month's salary for him. Imagine if he actually stumbles into a vase one day. He almost _had_ before, back when he’d first started in the role -- giddy that Lucas was finally acknowledging him -- it’d been a yellow colored vase, decorated in blue flowers -- pretty. He’d almost tipped it over while trying not to drop his note-book and pen -- an unglamorous comedy of errors. Lucas had joked that Renjun might’ve owed him $30,000 as compensation for the custom piece. 

Renjun tended to stand near the doorway now, because of that. 

He could barely afford rent and his Netflix subscription, not to mention he desperately needed to replace his piece of shit laptop. Hong-Kong was _expensive_. 

He scurries over to the couch in Lucas office in an almost robotic fashion. His life flashing before his eyes. 

And _maybe_ … could it be? 

This is a nice touch, the comfort of the executive couch.

“Jot this down-” 

Oh. 

_This_ he can do. 

Never-mind. 

He’d spoken too soon. Always just a little _too_ eager. Wanting it a little _too_ bad. 

How _humiliating_. 

How _unprofessional_. 

Well...professionally…

This is beyond his area of expertise, beyond ‘The Notes’. If he were a stronger man, a _better_ man, he’d go and tell Lucas as such. But he _wasn’t_. 

Couldn’t _afford_ to be. 

He sits down at his desk, guides his shaky hands towards the lukewarm glass of water waiting for him. Ignores the steady gaze of his colleague, Ying Yue, who is eager to know. 

It just so happens, Renjun _isn’t_ eager to share. 

Ying Yue presses on anyway, a level of determination Renjun didn’t care for. 

“What did he call you for?” Ying Yue starts, she manages to get _just_ the right mix of curiosity and concern to settle in her eyes.  
Renjun isn’t _moved_ or _phased_ but he answers anyway. 

“It’s nothing much,” he tries to sound nonchalant, lest she find an opening to wiggle her way in, to become _trusted_. He didn’t want that, couldn’t have it. Selfish? Sure. Necessary? _Absolutely_. “Just wants me to draft something for him,” he lets that settle before continuing, “then he wants me to stop by his place…” 

He tries to suppress the smug grin itching to make its way across his face. He has to remain unconcerned -- nonplussed. This _isn’t_ a big deal. Not like most people wouldn’t give life and limb for this job, shitty paid as it was. 

Ying Yue can’t hide her surprise and Renjun feels his willpower slowly start to fade. 

Hold steady. 

Can you ever be too far out of the woods? 

“He’s asking you to go to his house? When - When are you going? You’re going now?” And goodness, gracious, what kind of questions are these? He doesn’t know when. He’s too nervous to even think of it. Is barely comprehending the task himself, without needing to explain it to her. 

“I’m going to head out as soon as I finish this draft.” 

There. Nice and noncommittal. 

The phone rings. 

“Sir.” 

“Change in plans -- scrap the draft, arrive before 2:00PM” 

“Sir.” 

The phone goes silent. 

_Shit. Fuck. Fucking Hell. FUCK. SHIT. FUCK._

He breathes. Barely. 

Ying Yue’s eyes are wide as saucers. He tells himself he didn’t _mean_ to leave it on speaker. 

And well, isn’t that just great. Little Miss Office Fan-Fiction hearing Lucas demand he get to his penthouse before 2:00 -- in 30 mins. Not suspicious at all. 

No, not suspicious at all -- even if he _wants_ it to be. 

Renjun adds no clarity. 

He uses the company card to book one of the expensive taxis that wait outside the building. If he pulls up to The Morgan in his own car, valet will refuse to park it, and security will be called. He’ll be towed away while still in the damn thing -- _‘Sorry sir, your piece of shit, 2008 hyundai is causing the residents great distress, perhaps you have another car? An Aston Martin if you will?’_

The ride to The Morgan is smooth, like aged whisky on a stressful day -- or so he imagines. He’s never had whiskey before. 

Renjun steps out of the car as steadily as possible. Tries not to give off any indication that he’s _poor_ lest they think he’s here to rob the place -- smooths his hair down and fixes his face into the firmest, most serious expression he can muster. The people in the movies say it’s all about _attitude_. He’s always angry, so he guesses that counts. 

There’s an old man at the front desk who looks over his glasses as Renjun pretends to know where he’s going. Judges him as his cheap shoes squeak on the -- is that _marble?_ \-- floor of the plaza. 

He hopes he’s tracking dirt in, just to really stick it to him. 

The ride up to the 35th floor is tense. And he knows it’s just an elevator ride, he knows Lucas won’t even be _home_ , but Renjun had fucked up far, far simpler tasks. Something like this...well who knew really. He’d almost fucked up and gotten himself trapped in the elevator a few seconds ago, when he forgot you needed a passcode to get to the penthouse floors. 

Lucas had given it to him _verbally_ ; this was another thing he wasn’t really _supposed_ to hear -- after this, after today, he’d let the memory fade. Like he never even knew where Lucas lived at all. Though he won’t pretend he’s not giddy at what it could all mean.  
For him. For _them_.

The elevator doors simply open and he finds it just a tad bit unnerving. There is no ding, no beep, no automated voice telling him he’s arrived. They just open. Freely. Duped. Fooled into believing Renjun _belonged_ , all because he had the code. He steps inside slowly, takes off his shoes -- he can barely afford to breathe the air, he can’t even imagine having his $15 shoes scuff up what is likely a floor made from imported wood. 

He reaches into his pocket, touches it, makes sure it’s there. 

He’s not really sure where to go but forward, is surprised at the, dare he say, _warm_ feel the penthouse takes on as he gets further inside. He’d expected Lucas’ house to be cold. Clinical. A shrine to Lucas. Ego unchecked and untamed. 

He steps into the Foyer? Great Room? Den? He’s not really sure what all the different rooms are. He’s from rather humble beginnings. He’d shared a bunk-bed with his sister until they both left for college. The other room in the house was his parents' room. They also had a kitchen with a small table from which to eat. There was no _sitting room_ or anything. Sometimes, back when Renjun was a teenager and had a job at this little place called “Damn Good DanDan” he’d stay late just so the owner, Mr. Zhang, would let him crash on the couch in the break room. The restaurant had central heating and cooling, and Mr. Zhang’s wife would always make a bowl of noodles and some xiao long bao for him before they officially closed shop. She’d been worried about his weight. Would still be if she saw him now. 

Anyways…

The space is open. The couch looks plush, the projector screen is down where Lucas had obviously been watching TV the night before. It’s bigger than Renjun’s bed. There are little coffee tables, arranged like art, different little trinkets adorn them. A wall of windows lights the way, but don’t, in some miracle of design, cast shadow or glare over the screen. There are a lot of plants. More than he’d suspect Lucas of actually caring for. A gardener perhaps? A maid? 

Duh. 

Of course. 

Lucas is _rich_. 

Everything is a light color -- Renjun had noticed rich people tended to favor that. The furniture is all creams and whites mixed with caramel and coffee colored leather and wood. He takes two steps down fully into the room. Let’s the feel of it wash over him. 

This was everything. 

_This_ was what he wanted.

He steps further into the... he’ll call it the living room- emboldened by the desire to feel as if he belonged, as if he could achieve, could attain. Seeing is believing. Believing is achieving, or so they say. 

And then. 

Then. 

And then he sees _him_ , curled on the couch, half asleep, wholly _naked_ and…

_He’s not supposed to be here._

He _can’t_ be here. 

It’s like a shock to the system. A rush of ice cold water over simmering coals. He can _feel_ his body hiss. And if he had fangs like some sort of lion or tiger, he imagines they’d be bared. 

The absolute _injustice_ of it all. 

And he looks _used_. 

Body covered in…

Just like the _whore_ Renjun _knew_ he was. 

_Despicable._

And he can feel his blood run hot. 

He’s so damn mad. He’s so damn _upset_.

And it was because of this! This here, this right now! 

And he’d _never_ feel anything akin to pity or sorrow. 

He’d _never_ feel guilty. 

He’s _enraged_. By God, he’s so _fucking angry_. 

And he wonders why everyone hates him. 

How could they _not_! How could _he_ not! How could -- 

_Breathe._

Mark. 

_Disgusting._


	6. Doyoung: Mr. Nice Guy

“I care about you as a colleague, as a friend, as-” 

“It’d be better if you didn’t, you know...laugh while saying it.” 

“I care about you-” 

“You’re laughing a bit.” 

“I-” 

“Should we take a minute? Maybe get some water -- regroup in five?” 

He nods along with the rest of them. 

She places a hand on his shoulder as she makes her way out of the room, gives it a little squeeze. 

_Whatever._

And he _knows_ it looks like he’s not trying. And he _can’t_ say he’s giving it 100% but at least he’d bothered to show up. Which was more than could be said for the rest of them. 

And of course, the main reason they were even _doing_ this bullshit supervisor training was _absent_. Unaccounted for. 

Not at all present. 

And this was _just_ like Taeyong to blow off something important because _he_ didn’t deem it as such. Probably shopping or getting his roots touched-up. And Doyoung _got_ it. Taeyong was beautiful and he cared about staying that way. But _still_ , if he put half as much into, you know, _empathizing_ with people, as he put into his appearance, they might actually get through a fiscal quarter without some low-level pencil pusher asking if they offered ‘workplace counselling’. As the Vice President of Human Resources, it often ended up being his job to… _deter_ employees from looking too deeply into the… _trauma_ they were facing in the workplace. Honestly, if Doyoung didn’t care about the company getting _sued_ he’d say to hell with it all, let it burn. But he did. Cause he was a nice person...or, well, he _tried_ to be. 

And while yes, Doyoung could admit he was probably about… oh, he’d say five, _maybe_ 7% of all the anonymous “my boss is awful” emails that flooded the generic HR portal, he was 100% sure, of the remaining 93% , the _majority_ were in reference to Taeyong, some would be directed at Johnny and the minuscule remainder would be split between Jaehyun, Taeil _and_ Yuta. 

That’s how fucking _horrible_ Taeyong was. 

He grabs a seat in a chair at the far back of the room, away from everyone so he can seethe in private. It was bad enough Johnny had bailed halfway through, not even bothering with an excuse, simply _leaving_. Doyoung had seen him boldly walk past the conference room with a Sushi Kaisin bag in hand. He’d had to bring in Ten, who wasn’t _even_ a supervisor, just to keep the count up. You needed a minimum of five for the class. 

Taeil was ‘doing his best’ and Jaehyun -- well, was _there_ at least. Yuta. 

To say he was frustrated would be putting it mildly. 

He felt like they came across as the biggest group of assholes, and that’s probably because they _were_ assholes, but surely they could pretend not to be for the sake of a four hour class. 

The door swings open in dramatic fashion and Taeyong steps in. And of course he’s a vision. Model like despite not being very tall. And he glides right past everyone until he’s in Doyoung's space, not caring that most people would consider the whole thing rather _rude_. 

“Let’s get lunch.” 

And of course there is absolutely no regard for any of Doyoung’s plans, Doyoung’s schedule. 

He nods anyway. 

“I booked us at Kaisin, I’m craving sushi.” 

Doyoung _hates_ how much alike they are. 

  
  


If Doyoung had to rank himself, he’d say he’s smart. Not Einstein, Goethe, or Clausis smart, but, on the upward trend of average. He reckons Taeyong deigns to be his friend because of it. And Doyoung knows it’s silly, but he takes pride in that. 

“Kun was in town this week.” 

Just like that, his appetite is gone. 

Taeyong requests his uni in a simple seaweed wrap. He’s trying to cut down on carbs. 

“What was Kun in Seoul for?” He tries to sound calm, cool. He feels like he’s failing. Taeyong likes making people squirm. 

Taeyong doesn’t even look at him. “Being his usual piece of shit self I reckon. Looking for weaknesses.” 

Doyoung nods. 

That’s… 

It’s not true. 

Taeyong orders something with _truffles_ and Doyoung decides to pick up the drinks menu. 

Sake. Vermouth. He’ll take either. Both. 

“So, per usual, Haechan’s fucking up. I fucking _hate_ him.” 

Doyoung nods. He knows. Everyone knows. _Haechan_ knows. 

“Why can’t I fire him? What bullshit HR rule is this.” 

“Johnny hired him.” 

Taeyong closes his eyes, Doyoung likes to imagine he too, has moments where he has to pretend things aren’t real. 

“I’m his supervisor.” 

“Jaehyun’s his supervisor” 

“I’m Jaehyun’s supervisor.” 

Well. 

“He could sue.” 

“On what grounds?” 

“Not liking him isn’t cause for termination.” 

“Says _who_?” 

“The Government.” 

Taeyong’s face falls. 

Doyoung resists the urge to pet him, to softly press his hands against the silky pink strands and make him feel better. Taeyong’s _hurting_ and Doyoung feels so awful about it. 

"So tell me about Kun’s visit.” 

Talking about Haechan will get them no-where. 

Taeyong raises a brow. 

“What’s there to tell? He came, likely went to talk to shareholders, had dinner with Johnny…” 

“He had dinner with Johnny?” 

Taeyong makes a face. 

“I don’t know. I’m just speculating." 

“Why would he have dinner with Johnny?" 

“Are you hard of hearing, or do you just not listen; I said, I was _speculating_.” 

“But what if he did? I mean, if he was here, why _would_ he is what I meant.” 

“What if I had grounds?” 

_What?_

“What?” 

“What if I had grounds to terminate Haechan?” 

Doyoung swallows. 

Of course there are _grounds_ \-- Doyoung knows it, Johnny knows it too. 

It’s just… 

Well, you see… 

Doyoung sighs. 

“What are these _grounds_?” 

Has to be sure...he has to _know_. 

Oh Taeyong -- they never meant to cause you any pain. 

Taeyong doesn’t speak. Simply rolls his eyes upwards and Doyoung knows that’s the end of it. 

Taeyong is annoyed and so it’s through. 

“When did Kun leave?” He tries a different tactic, Doyoung could be determined when he put his mind to it. 

“I’m not some jilted lover, I don’t keep _tabs_ on him.” 

But you knew he was here. Doyoung knows better than to take that angle, to speak it aloud. 

“Wong?” 

“What are you asking?” 

“Well, Wong being there makes a difference -- Kun doesn’t really act of his own accord.” 

Taeyong lifts a dark brow. 

“Kun’s a runner -- sake please, Daignjo if you have it -- he’ll do what Lucas tells him.” 

“Why not XiaoJun?” 

“Are you listening to yourself?” 

Doyoung sighs. 

“Yuta’s prepared.” 

“Seriously, listen to yourself.” 

“So you don’t trust Yuta?” 

“He doesn’t tend to have great luck coming up with good ideas.” 

“We would’ve failed without him, you know that.” 

“I don’t actually.” 

He sighs again. 

“He’s loyal.” 

“Which I’ve never given a single fuck _about_. I don’t care about _loyalty_ , that’s Johnny’s bit, I care about _competence_ and he’s a fucking space cadet. The only thing he’s loyal to is his fucking bi-weekly deposit. He’s a joke. I want someone new.” 

Taeyong throws back his sake. He’s got such terrible drinking habits. 

Shakes the glass to motion for what is likely a third. 

“Mark’s ok you know...he’s fine. He’s going to be fine.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” 

“I’m just reassuring you." 

“Is that supposed to _mean_ anything to me coming from you?" 

And ouch. That actually hurts. 

Like, a lot. 

“But it’s true, he _is_. You know he is.” 

Taeyong shakes his glass again, annoyed, nothing is ever fast enough for him. 

And truthfully, Doyoung doesn’t know -- couldn’t possibly know. He didn’t live in that world, wasn’t ‘chosen’ in that same manner -- didn’t _need_ to be protected in the same way Taeyong felt the need to protect himself, to protect Mark. Doyoung would never truly understand it. The fear that came from being too beautiful and too rare. Always fighting to possess yourself, trying to prevent anyone from possessing you. 

Doyoung had seen Taeyong fight, had seen Taeyong break through chains not meant to be broken -- Taeyong had _survived_ , Doyoung respected that. Wished he could do _anything_ about Mark, but he _couldn’t_. And it hurt him, it did, to think about Taeyong, sitting in his home at night, alone and afraid, for Mark.  


“I always fool myself into thinking you’re _smarter_ than the rest of them,” a bitter color seeps into the words. Coats them thoroughly. 

And he _is_ , he _swears_ he is, but he can’t -- there was a lot more at play here, a lot more at stake. 

“..and so why can’t you find a way for me to get rid of Haechan? Seeing as you _think_ you’re so damn smart ” 

“What are you...Taeyong, listen -- you think I wouldn’t tell you if I thought you had _grounds_ \-- I know how strained the relationship is, I _know_ but I’m protecting _you_...” Doyoung goes lax in his seat “we’re in the whole ‘rock-hard place’ conundrum -- it sucks, but that’s what it is.” 

Taeyong drowns his sake again. 

“All that sounds like _Johnny’s_ problem though, if an employee sucks at their job, they should be _fired_.” 

Doyoung scoffs. 

“And you think _anyone_ is going to believe you’re firing him _solely_ because of that? You know he’s going to claim ‘retaliation’ -- we have this conversation every damn week -- you _know_ that’s what he’ll do Taeyong.” 

Taeyong sighs. Slips out of his seat. 

“I’m going to make a phone call.” 

Doyoung nods. 

“He’s _fine_ Taeyong --- Mark’s going to be just fine.” 

Taeyong throws a wad of bills on the table and leaves. 

  
  
  


To: TennieTen10  
_Johnny heard from Kun?_

To: NoDoughCashYoung  
_Not that i know of._


	7. Taeil: The Bitter

When the interns come to him for advice, _which they don’t_ , Taeil believes he’d give the same tidbit of information he wishes he’d been given when he signed on the dotted line: 

Trust absolutely _no one_.

And that’s easy to say, sure, he’s aware of that, but that doesn’t make it any less true. 

He’d always felt the 10 commandments got it wrong. And he knows he’d be pushing it to say they had actually majorly fucked-up, but he was going to say it anyways. The 10 commandments had fucked up; you shouldn’t be _shamed_ for telling a lie -- it shouldn’t be a _sin_. Sometimes, it was _necessary_ to lie -- life saving even, in the right circumstance. 

Taeil thinks ‘trust no truths’ would be his convoluted ‘commandment’ if ever he found himself in the position to ‘command’. He thinks it’s perfect in its own messy little way. The ideal little riddle to keep heads spinning, keep things in perspective. 

9:45AM

And it wasn’t that Taeil didn’t think people couldn’t be trustworthy or trusted; it was just that his experiences had shown him, they likely _weren’t_ and _couldn't be_ , even if they spent years trying to prove to you they were. Call him a hard-ass, call him hard-nosed, but he’d been burnt too many times before, to make the same foolish mistakes again. 

He had trusted Johnny, and look how _that_ turned out. 

A cushy director job he didn’t deserve? 

Well… _yes_. 

And so what was the problem? 

Well… _everything_ really. There weren’t enough hours in the day, or days in the year, or years in the eternity to properly explain, in great detail, why absolutely _everything_ was shit. 

And then there is the added little cherry on top that Taeyong was _technically_ his boss. 

Taeil’s not saying _shoot him_ , but if you’ve got a shot, he’d not mind you taking it. 

Taeil couldn’t begin to describe it, how fucked up and muddied almost _everything_ had become. He’d felt like he lost himself somewhere along the way, but between the drinking, and the _cocaine_ , and all the money he’d burned through fooling around with Jaehyun and Ten and Johnny and the whole lot of them trying to _keep up_ , he couldn’t really pinpoint _where_. And he’s _sorry_ for that. Find's it rather depressing, this spiral of winning and losing he constantly finds himself in. 

It's Taeyong’s fault. Well. Mark had helped too. And Taeil _knows_ that’s the wrong way to think about it. He had done his dirt, played his part. But really, he always found it so _easy_ to blame the most obvious of suspects. And seeing as how he was already on Taeyong’s permanent shit-list, what was one more lump of simmering coal into the burning fire? 

The problem was simple enough. Taeil _liked_ Haechan. Taeyong didn’t. But they had been enemies way before then, starting back in college really, when Taeil had wised up and decided there was more to life than being one of Taeyong's bag carriers. Taeyong hadn't responded well to that.

And maybe it _was_ childish, maybe Taeil didn’t really _like_ Haechan so much as he appreciated how Haechan had managed to get under Taeyong’s skin. Like some sort of incurable parasite that Taeyong was _forced_ to deal with, despite not wanting to.

Still, Taeil preferred to say he _liked_ Haechan; it made him feel better about himself. 

Haechan was...well, he couldn’t say he found him particularly _good_ in the shallow way they tended to toss the word around. And he didn't feel the need to dote on him in the same manner to which Ten fawned over Mark, but Haechan was _something_ and that was _good enough_ for now.

Would have to be.

And really, the most important thing to come of all this, though he knew Taeyong would violently disagree, was the realization from, not just Taeyong, but _all of them_ , that it was _OK_ if Taeyong didn't get everything he wanted, even if the world seemed to grant him _everything_ he so desired. 

And honestly, if Taeil could find the courage to tell the truth to even _himself_ , it had never been about Haechan as a person -- though you could argue, and he guesses that Taeyong _would_ , that it _was_ in-fact, about who Haechan was _as a person_. But still, in Taeil’s mind, it was more about what Haechan had _done_ and, more importantly, _why_ he had done it. 

Taeil wouldn’t make excuses for it. Couldn’t. But it doesn’t mean he didn’t understand. If he had been a braver, better man, he might’ve made those same choices too, way back when.

And really, at the risk of sounding repetitive, this was _all_ Taeyong’s fault. If Taeyong had been a little kinder, a little more...well, _anyone_ other than himself, _maybe_ Haechan wouldn’t have felt the need to go and ruin his entire life. 

Taeil’s tired of pretending he’s not even a little bit happy about it.

And while he feels righteous and justified in his happiness, he’s smarter than that. Has learned not to take anything at face value. 

Wars aren't won on single moments. 

He’s weary overall -- tired too. A potent cocktail of rage and happiness - Jaehyun would drink him up if he were 40 proof.

And Taeil hates when he gets in his own head like this -- when he starts to question -- starts to doubt. 

Maybe they had all celebrated too loudly, too soon. A little too joyous to see the platinum crown ripped off of Taeyong’s perfect little head. His favorite toy snatched from him in the most elaborate set up of all time. 

Taeil checks the time. 

9:45AM

Taeyong has been too quiet. 

Trust no truths. 

Taeil hates staff meetings for the simple fact that they tend to be about nothing in particular. Johnny never has a _real_ agenda together and the whole meeting ends up getting taken over by Taeyong, who does nothing but condescend and belittle -- with a smile of course. 

Taeil hates him more than he’s hated anyone and he’s hated _Johnny_ \-- he’s practiced at this. 

And its moments like these, Taeyong’s nose up in the air as the laymen dance, eager to impress, that Taeil wonders what everyone _sees_ that he can’t. Or maybe it’s just that he _won’t_ \-- too afraid of getting sucked back into the shell of a man he was before. And he's not saying he's _perfect_ now, but he's grown a lot since he'd taken Taeyong's "Organic Cheminstry II" final for him back in college. 

And of course, Taeyong is impressed by _nothing_ , true to form, and the pencil pushers scurry back to their seats -- chastised and humiliated. Johnny simply watches on. He’ll make no moves to stop anything. This has always been, and will always be, Taeyong’s world -- they should be grateful he's gracious enough to let them live in it. 

Ten had once told him, tipsy on his 5th dry-martini, that people _liked_ Mark because he had _‘vulnerability’_ and Taeil had almost thrown up in his mouth. 

Mark? 

Mark Lee? 

Vulnerable? 

_As if._

And he’d almost gone on a rant, a full blown _tirade_ about the meaning of the word ‘vulnerable’ and having _vulnerability_ when he remembered he was talking to Ten and that Ten was _stupid_ and so there would be no point. 

Ten thought Jaehyun cutting his hair _an inch_ was ‘brave’ so of course he managed to find, in his shallow mind, _vulnerability_ in Mark. 

And maybe Taeil was being an ass, but really, he’d never thought of Mark as anything but _conniving_. Maybe he had fooled the other interns and those merely struck by good looks, as _vulnerable_ , but Taeil had seen through him. Mark could make himself _appear_ vulnerable with his shy smiles and forced humble attitude, but he was farm from having or displaying _true_ vulnerability. 

The whole notion made Taeil sick.

Mark _wasn’t_ vulnerable, he was just as much of an entitled _ass_ as Taeyong; maybe even more so, if they really looked into it. Sure, Mark has always been one to give a weak _“I simply couldn’t,”_ when offered something fantastical, but Taeil can’t point to a _single_ instance where he had actually sacrificed one of his gilded awards -- had deferred another ostentatious trip or party invite or gift to someone _lesser_ than him. 

Mark hid his entitlement behind his _charming_ personality. Mark could pretend to give a fuck about other people so long as said people remembered that he was _better_ than them and treated him as such. It didn’t need to be spoken out loud. These were the unwritten rules of society -- Taeil had watched in awe, a queasy feeling settling in his stomach as Mark commanded without ever saying a word. The way they tripped over one another to stand closest to him. They way they clung to his every word when he could be bothered to speak. 

It was like watching a home movie. And he could see himself, one of those lackey’s in the back, eager to buy Mark coffee or give him his best pen or his last metro card because he _deserved_ those things for no other reason except for the fact that he _existed_.

Taeil could see it right away, had known from experience that Mark wasn’t any kinder or more concerned than Taeyong had been at his same age -- he was simply a more convincing actor. Mark could sit there, _seemingly_ humble, clapping and cheering for any of the other faceless interns in his class, because he had nothing to lose by doing so; the lot of them didn’t see it as an acquiescence or surrender. They _sought_ his validation -- _needed_ it. 

They _worshiped_ him. 

Had been taught to worship him as they came through life -- were still being taught to worship him under Taeyong and Ten and Doyoung’s tutelage. 

Ten and Doyoung because they were _stupid_. Taeyong because he had a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. 

And Mark was such a class act with it -- saving his biggest claps and strongest smiles for the weakest links in the chain. 

The little people -- they eat it up. 

It makes Taeil sick. 

_Of course_ Taeyong had latched onto Mark, the younger version of himself. 

_‘Fake empathy now included!’_

Taeil still gets chills when he remembers the day Haechan had claimed victory in battle.

Can still see it clearly -- the playback, technicolor in his mind. The foolish wave of happiness and pride that had overtaken him then, but never would again. 

They are in the Muse:Seoul gallery, Johnny standing at a podium in the front of the room, shuffling prop papers as he gets ready to make the announcement for official work placements. 

The deafening silence when Johnny calls the last ‘Lee’ and it’s _Haechan_. 

The wide eyed terror on Taeyong’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to get his way. 

And Taeil remembers that he had been proud of Doyoung, _for once_ , back then. Sticking to his guns knowing it could mean Taeyong would never see him as a friend again. 

He's looking over at Mark, and realizing he hates him. 

Hates everything about who he was and what he represented. 

The practiced _vulnerability_ on his face. The conjured mist of tears in his eyes. His small smile as everyone grieved _for_ him, on _behalf_ of him, like he had been owed it. Like he _inherently_ deserved it more than anyone else. 

And Taeil _hates_ him so much it hurts. 

Taeil is happy for _Haechan_. Is proud to see one of his ilk _rise_. 

Tries not to let the light clapping and disenchanted whispers get to him. 

They don’t get it. Today is a happy, joyous, _wondrous_ day. Today starts the long-trek to happiness, the freedom that comes with peace of mind. He spurs them to clap louder, harder, raising his head and nodding profusely. 

The crowd goes cold. Dead. 

Lord forgive them, for they know not what they do. 

And Mark, devious little pixie he was, stands in front of Haechan, the perfect smile on his face, hand on Haechan’s shoulder, speaking just the perfect blend of congratulatory words.

It’s a sermon. 

The audience erupts in cheer. They rejoice. 

Taeil can see it in their eyes. _This_ is their King.

He loses hope as Taeyong recharges. 

Doyoung hands Haechan his official name plate and the galley feigns interest and mummers muddled cheers for as long as deemed professional necessary before they disperse, eager to lick the wounds of their beheaded prince. Still in shock at the coup that has just taken place. 

It makes Taeil furious. 

They crowd around him, petting and touching -- upset for him. Angry. 

And Taeyong is there of course, a coupe of champagne raised towards the sky. 

‘Mark! Mark! Mark!’ They chant on behalf of their lord, and almost biblically, the spotlight shines upon him. 

He gives his best ‘aw shucks’ face before he takes the golden mic foisted upon him. 

Even in defeat, they are eager to exalt him. 

Taeil can’t bear to listen. 

He leaves with the burn of Taeyong’s eyes upon his back. 


	8. Yuta: Cheat Codes

_Fucking hell -- where the fuck do you put the toner in one of these damn space-aged things?_

Yuta opens a random panel and only finds the legal paper container. 

_Who even uses legal pa -- god-fucking-damnit!_

_That was his fucking pinky finger!_

_Piece of shit copier!_

_Fuck-it. A digital signature will do just fine._

Yuta leaves the copy room empty handed. And it’s moments like this that make him miss Mark. And no, it’s not like Mark would’ve _helped_ Yuta change the toner in the copier, Yuta wouldn’t have wanted him to (Mark could be clumsy) but he’d know who to ask. Mark was efficient like that. 

But there was no use in crying over spilled milk -- spoiled too, if he was being honest. 

Mark wasn’t ever coming back, and much as Yuta wished that weren’t the case, he knew it to be true. 

He had, after-all, ensured it. 

Yuta sees himself as cross-functional at Muse:Seoul. He’s a little column A, a little column B, and a little column C depending on the day. He’s never out of the loop, and most importantly, he’s always in the know. And that’s a survival skill at a place like Muse:Seoul, where secrets are credit and information is currency. He’d never be _poor_ here -- so long as he floated by -- kept his head down and did his work decently enough. People were always eager to speak with him, desperate to be in his good graces, if only because they knew, _he knew_ ; and they _didn’t_. 

The kind of power a weaker man could get drunk on. 

Yuta doesn’t. Won’t. There is far greater power to be had. He’s just got to wait. Got to be patient -- thinks of Taeil and Haechan, and how they had played their cards too early, too soon. The false belief they held -- the overt confession of _trust_ they had in Johnny, serving to slowly entrap them. 

Yuta wouldn’t be ensnared by Johnny -- had learned long ago that Johnny was fickle, a _liar_ to be blunt; worried mainly, if not _only_ about himself -- the spoils of Johnny’s illicit success were simply _incidental_. He surely hadn’t _planned_ for anyone else to benefit. Was probably _annoyed_ to see they had. Johnny had never been a ‘share the wealth’ type of person. Wouldn’t suddenly become one either. 

In some ways, Yuta appreciated Johnny for that. You could never be blind-sided by him in that way. Or at least, _Yuta_ never had. But that’s because it took one, to know one, and Yuta was admittedly crooked in his own way. 

And then there was Taeyong, who they had -- well again, if Yuta was being blunt -- _foolishly_ shown their hand too. 

Yuta wouldn’t trade places with them for _anything_ , not even a clean slate -- even if he desperately needed one. And he’d _let_ you call him a sell-out for that -- had already lost far more, for far less to be overly concerned about it. 

That too, had been necessary in a way. 

Taeyong, of course, would pounce -- was _pouncing_. Would _slaughter_ them for this. And Yuta wanted to feel sorry for them, but _couldn’t_. Wished he could help them, but at the same time, didn’t _really_ want to -- couldn’t be _bothered_ to. Yuta had to think of himself. Times were tough enough and he was already on rather shaky and ill-thought footing; he wouldn’t make it worse by deciding that _now_ was the time for bravery. 

It would be _mis-placed_ anyway. Taeil and Haechan didn’t _deserve_ that much consideration. And he felt _bad_ for them, in a way -- though, at the same time, not at all. 

He’s noticing a pattern there. 

And -- no. He takes that back. He feels bad because they so foolishly believe they have an ally in _Johnny_ of all people -- the whole thing makes Yuta want to laugh. 

Couldn’t they see? 

How could they _not_? 

Johnny had been about saving _Johnny_ from the onset. Had merely _used_ them as tools to get the job done. And again, _yes_ Yuta knows he played a part. But _again_ , truly, it was minuscule in the grand scheme of things and not really any different from any part he had played in Johnny’s schemes before. 

Still, he worries about it. Haechan and Taeil, both bitter enough to bring everyone else down with them. 

Or try to anyways. 

Taeyong was invincible and, in a perverse turn of events, _innocent_ in all of this. Johnny _couldn’t_ drown. Doyoung would ensure Jaehyun could swim to shore and Yuta was adept. He’d survive. 

Still, it didn’t mean he _wanted_ the storm that was to come his way. 

Taeyong could be _vicious_ when he wanted to be. Sure, he made people cry and employees want to quit on a daily --no, he’s being too generous -- _hourly_ , basis. He surely would leave their bones bare as retribution for this. Let the rats feast on their corpses. Perched on his throne, a golden goblet of blood in his hand. A sacrifice to the gods so that he may reign completely, _forever_. 

And Yuta didn’t blame him for that. 

Could only hope Taeyong would be so distracted by the foolish collusion of the others, not to notice Yuta’s own _minor_ crimes. 

Yuta would atone for them. He had sworn to whatever being in the sky -- and on his most recent trip to the underground slots -- that he _would_ ; may he not lose _another ₩4,500,000_ because of it. He was _sorry_. He’d _repent_. 

Looking back on it, though, Yuta can’t even say it _hadn’t_ been worth it. And whether they _liked_ it or not, protecting Johnny was _necessary_. They couldn’t lose _everything_ to Lucas -- and of course, in some joke of reality, what Lucas wanted was what Taeyong _had_. And it’s weird, Yuta thinks, how the gods had picked a favorite among the favored. 

And if Yuta had disagreed with their choice, well, he’d never speak it aloud. 

Of course Taeyong, _gentle_ and _fragile_ being he was, felt he’d lost most of all. And _maybe_ , Yuta surmises with a grim smile, he had. 

And hadn’t they _wanted_ that? 

They had gotten it too, by some miracle -- had _rejoiced_ at it. 

Yuta had thought it a heavenly omen, only to find it had been hell’s very on mirage. 

Taeyong, chosen being that he was, would _of course_ rise to reign again. 

_Had risen._

But it had _needed_ to be done. 

Still though, there is some gnawing, nagging feeling in the back of his mind, that really, Johnny had done it all for his own amusement. Because he _would_ \-- because he _could_. 

What Yuta wouldn’t give to be that powerful. 

“You can come in, you know.” Yuta starts -- Haechan has been hovering outside for the past five minutes and it’s making Yuta anxious. The last time Haechan had hovered in the door-frame -- well, let’s just say it hadn’t been particularly _good_ for him. He wasn’t eager to repeat that. 

Still, he finds himself frowning when Haechan actually steps inside. 

This isn’t what he wanted at all. 

Haechan grabs at his own hands, eyes shifting -- darting across the room in frantic fashion. 

And Yuta needs him to hurry up -- he’s got a 2:30 with Taeyong and Haechan absolutely _can’t_ be seen leaving his office. And it’s not that Taeyong can _fire_ him or anything, as Johnny is fortunately his boss, but Taeyong has _ways_ of making life uncomfortable that Yuta doesn’t care to test-dummy for. 

“So,” Haechan starts slowly, Yuta can tell he’s working his way up to something. 

“So.” Yuta repeats back. Tries to move things along. 

“Legally speaking, like, in a legal sense, Taeyong _can’t_ fire me over the whole, Mark getting fired -- right?” 

“Mark was _advised_ to leave and his subsequent departure was a decision made of his own accord.” Yuta shifts in his seat -- he hates being on the spot for legal nonsense. He _barely_ passed the bar. 

“Right.” Haechan deflates a little, and Yuta resists the urge to smile -- he had wanted it so bad. 

“And so, that’s even _less_ cause right?” 

“What are you asking exactly?” 

“...and Mark now works with Lucas, I mean, that _substantiates_ my initial filing, doesn’t it?” 

“Well, not exactly.” Not at all -- Yuta thinks; it was way more complex than that and Haechan would do well to mind himself here. He knew what he had done, what he had facilitated. Feigning ignorance now, wasn’t going to open the pearly gates later. 

“Fine. Does Mark...does he know? Did he ever…” 

Yuta sighs. He’s not got time for this -- for whatever woe is me bullshit Haechan cooked up for today. 

“No. And it was anonymous, remember.” Yuta replies succinctly. 

And it’s true. Mark wasn’t the type who would even ask in the first place. 

Taeyong had asked though. And even when presented with an anonymous email, Yuta knows he _knew_. 

Haechan had saved and killed them all at once. 

_FROM: Lucas.Wong@WongGallery.org_  
_TO: YNakamoto@MuseSeoul.org_  
_Subject: Call me._

_Lets Chat. Free tnite @ 8._

_L  
_

“What’s Lucas want?” Taeyong’s voice is velvety soft in the darkness. Yuta hadn’t even noticed him slip in. 

_Fuck._

“I’m sure it’s about the board charter,” Yuta tries to lie -- it’s pointless, he knows. Taeyong could sniff out a tall-tale as if he had been trained to do it. The only thing saving Yuta from being gutted on the spot is the mighty truth that Taeyong _needs_ him. At least for now. And Yuta will take advantage of this loop-hole. This rare gift of grace from the heavens. 

He lets a quiet settle over the room -- his best defense against Taeyong had always been pretending he _wasn’t_ afraid of him like the others were. 

Sometimes, he likes to think, he pulls it off pretty well. 

Taeyong walks along the far wall of Yuta’s office -- leans against the window-sill and Yuta prays that like a plastic levy during a hurricane, it breaks. Imagines Taeyong falling forward and then winces when even his imagination has him landing, like a cat, softly on his feet -- Yuta feels nauseous. 

“How much did he pay you?” 

Yuta freezes. Goes for the weak chuckle instead of the outright denial. 

Taeyong remains firm. 

“How much did Lucas pay you?” 

And. _Oh_. This definitely isn’t good. 

Yuta’s not even sure which type of reaction to _fake_ here. He stays still, face blank, brain processing -- _slowly_. 

“He didn’t -- why would he?” Yuta finally lands on something -- it’s not his best. They both know it. 

Taeyong smirks. “That’s what I thought,” he chuckles as he exits as quietly as he came. 

_Fuck._

_To:JaeBoi_  
_From: Nakamoto N._

Delete everything. 

_To: Nakamoto N._  
_From: JaeBoi_

Call me. 


	9. Chenle: For Hire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I made this rated 'E' because of explicit language and content. We're starting to get into a bit of it here. Chenle's chapter is pretty tame because of his limited POV-- he's around Mark/Lucas but in a limited capacity and people aren't always fourth coming with everything they know - but just a warning going forward that there WILL be sexual content in this fic.

Chenle is always sure to say he knows _of_ Mark, not that he _knows_ Mark. He feels like that’s an important distinction, and that’s mainly because it’s true. Even if he wishes it weren’t. 

Chenle couldn’t tell you Mark’s favorite color, his favorite food or if he had a pet, but he could tell you _of_ him. Of what he’d _seen_ of him, _heard_ about him, and truly, it was more than anyone else could do, considering Mark wasn’t particularly _easy_ to get hold of, or even run across. And honestly, Chenle thinks that’s OK -- though it doesn’t stop him from wanting it. 

Mark -- he’s handsome, not pretty in the typical pretty boy manner, but still soft and cute -- _attractive_. He’s _tiny_ \-- with small hands and a thin waist, his legs are long and skinny. His arms are only just shy of toothpicks and Chenle can trace the outline of his facial bones with his eyes. He’s only slightly taller than Chenle himself, which isn’t saying much. 

Overall, Mark’s _little_ in a way that had surprised Chenle -- all the stories, the gossip and rumors seemed to speak to someone slightly more _statuesque_. 

But then again, Chenle guesses it sort of makes sense. Because Mark was so...well, _small_ and unassuming, it made the gossip seem that much more scandalous and, in a roundabout way, that much more _believable_. 

Still, after months of preaching the ‘Anti-Mark’ philosophy and promoting the ‘Anti-Mark’ agenda with some of his more over-zealous colleagues, Chenle was finding that he actually _liked_ Mark. 

And maybe it’s the part of Chenle that was silly and easily impressed by guys he thought were cute, but Mark just seems so _good_ , seems so _harmless_ that Chenle finds it a struggle to maintain what had previously been such firmly held beliefs. 

Chenle likes that Mark attempts to talk to the team in Mandarin and that he dabbles in Cantonese, even though just about everyone at Paint By Wong can speak English, in fact, he and Renjun both know Korean pretty decently too and so Mark throws in some ‘Hangul’ here and there to keep things fresh. Chenle likes it. Renjun just rolls his eyes. 

Chenle likes that Mark just lets things roll off his back. Jokes that he _didn’t understand_ when Chenle knew he did. 

And even still, Chenle thinks it’s pretty obvious when everyone is gossiping about you _fucking your boss_. 

“They are saying that?” And Mark had looked so dejected that Chenle wanted to puke. He simply nods, his fringe falling into his eyes as Mark's eyes water just the tiniest bit. 

“It’s stupid, ignore it,” is all he can really say. There’s nothing he can do to make this _better_. 

“How embarrassing...” Mark sighs, and Chenle resists the urge to reach out and touch him -- he’d been told _not to_ and so he wasn't going to. But he wanted to. Could think of nothing better to do with his hands. 

Chenle fights the urge to shrug in place of the gentle touch he so desires, lest it seems he’s invalidating Mark’s feelings. Call him foolish, call him ignorant, but he didn’t really get what the big deal was. So let’s say that Mark _was_ fucking his boss, and Chenle _knows_ he is -- what’s the big deal about it? As far as Chenle knew, majority of the marketing team and 75% of the HR team had taken the job for the _sole purpose_ of maybe getting the chance to fuck Lucas. Why was Mark _potentially_ fucking him, and again, Chenle _knows_ he is, such world breaking news. Why are people _upset_ about it? 

Was it because it wasn’t _them_ , or was it because it was _Mark_? Chenle had a sneaking suspicion it was the latter, and for some reason, that _bothered_ him. 

Maybe it’s because it felt something akin to victim blaming. 

Lucas was fucking Mark because he _wanted_ to -- the galley would do well to remember that, even if they could never accept it. 

And Chenle found it hypocritical -- how they spent their days admonishing Mark to hell and back again, as they tried their damndest to get Lucas' attention. As they strutted around in too tight slacks and wore hair in a style reminiscent of _Mark_. The way they molded themselves after him, hating him all the while. 

And it was in that moment where Chenle understood Lucas -- why he wanted Mark so, so badly. Had to have him, had almost broken laws to get him. To possess him. Mark had this vulnerability to him that completely captivated you. He was unwillingly perfect in a way; cold and aloof in a manner that made him seem almost ungrateful for the perfect star alignment that was his birth -- the command from the Gods that made him the _star_ of the show. He didn’t _want_ any of it, but it had been given to him regardless. He’d freely give it away if given the chance, and yet, there was no one else who made even an ounce of sense trying to fill those same shoes.

And Chenle knows it’s wrong to think of Mark like that, like a _thing_ to be had -- to own. 

And yet. 

“Don’t worry about it Mark, it’s not true anyways,” -- Chenle can lie about this if it will make Mark feel better -- help Mark _stay good_. Because it wasn’t Mark's fault. 

Mark looks down, wraps a bony hand around a bony wrist. 

“Why would they even think that?” Mark looks out into the distance, eyes blank, mouth slightly open. And he’s perfect. So perfect. 

And he’s not for Chenle. 

Could never be for Chenle. That wasn’t how life worked. 

“People start random, baseless rumors all the time Mark,” Chenle offers unhelpfully. And really, there are a bevy of reasons that people think the way they do -- Chenle’s not got the guts to list them out. Not now anyways. 

Mark sighs again, shoulders slumping. “I’m -- I’m going to go home for today -- if anyone asks, tell them I’m not feeling so well.”

And Chenle could do that. Would _only_ do that, though it would of course, do nothing to quell the rumors. 

“Ah, so he had to get back home in time for his 2:00PM dick down,” Ying Yue starts. And Chenle would hate her if he didn’t have better things to do. Renjun laughs and it breaks Chenle’s heart. He _likes_ Renjun, always expects _better_ of him. 

“Don’t start, he said he wasn’t feeling well,” Chenle tries not to sound too angry, too protective, lest it get back to Lucas that _Chenle likes your little boy-toy_.

Chenle _needs_ this job. Hong Kong is _expensive_. 

“I’m sure he _isn’t_ ,” Ying Yue grabs the kettle off the stove, “Lucas was in a bad mood all day yesterday, I’m betting Mark was some much needed stress relief for him last night -- sure his little body took the beating of the century -- Lucas seems _rough_.” 

And it’s gross, it’s vulgar and it’s horrible. 

Chenle doesn’t doubt it. 

“I don’t think they’re _fucking_ or anything, why do you guys think that -- and even if they were, why would you guys care?” 

Chenle is good at lying. Has always been. Doesn’t understand why people find it so hard. 

Renjun snorts but doesn’t say anything else. Ying Yue struggles to be silent for even 5 seconds at a time. 

“You do know that his job is _fake_ right? I mean, Lucas just _created_ it for him. That job isn’t _real_.” 

Chenle rolls his eyes. 

“Just because it didn’t exist before doesn’t mean it wasn’t needed. Doesn’t mean it’s not real.” 

Renjun huffs, exasperated. “Don’t tell me he’s worked you over Zhong. He doesn’t even have _deliverables_.” 

Ying Yue laughs. “Oh, but he _does_ …” She turns to Renjun, waggling her brows. Chenle watches as they topple over in laughter _together_ , wiping fake tears from their eyes and clutching at their waists. He can _smell_ the jealously wafting off of them in waves, the scent is the exact opposite of what it means to be pleasant. 

Chenle can’t stomach this. 

Wonders how Mark can bare to show his face everyday. 

And it's not like they're _wrong_ about it. Deep down, Chenle _knows_ they aren't. But still, Mark is _good_ and it's not right. It's just not right. 

Renjun takes a sip of his tea, stares Chenle in the eyes. "Look, Chenle, you don't really believe that Mark's a good guy, do you? Cause you _shouldn't_ \-- you _can't_." 

And Renjun, of course, doesn't give him any reason or explanation beyond that.

Chenle won't accept it. 

"Lucas isn't some damsel in distress," Chenle gets out -- he's been itching to say it for _weeks_. 

Ying Yue and Renjun look at him with wide eyes and silent answers. 

Maybe Chenle just doesn't get it. 

Maybe he never will. 

“Zhong.” 

Chenle looks up from his screen -- he’s not been doing much work. The NBA playoff series is going on and he considers that way more important than whatever filing Hendery needs him to do. He minimizes his screen, mutes the volume as Kun comes closer. 

Kun is easy. He can deal with Kun, though it’s rare he ever has to. 

“Kun?”

“I need you to process these payments for me,” Kun hands him a folder, “I want micro payments, can you do that?” 

And Chenle nods. It’s not really even a question of if he _can_ , when he knows he _must_. 

“Over how long?” 

“26 weeks, pre-date them -- payments for cash based services ok?” 

Chenle nods again -- he can do that. It’s annoying and a pain and the ass, but he can do it. 

Has to. 

“And Zhong,” Chenle glances back at Kun, who simply motions ‘zipped lips” before walking away. 

Chenle nods _again_ at Kun’s back. Ready and willing as always. 

_SHRED WHEN COMPLETE:  
Jung, Jaehyun: ₩ 92,367,750.00  
Nakamoto, Yuta: ₩ 104,683,450.00  
Lee, Haechan: ₩ 88,673,040.00  
Kim, Jungwoo: ₩ 80,052,050.00 _


	10. Jungwoo: In Need

Jungwoo is lactose intolerant, which should mean something, but doesn’t. He orders his frappe with whole fat milk and whipped cream on top. His digestive system will just have to deal. 

Frappe’s are his ‘stress drink'. And although Jungwoo isn’t keen on the calorie count, the rush of dairy and sugar seems to be one of the few things that can quell his nerves. 

And by God, do they need serious quelling. Which is hilarious to him, considering he doesn’t even know _why_ he’s nervous. He’d _earned_ this spot -- had nothing to be ashamed of. Wasn’t going to let Taeyong or Ten make him believe otherwise. 

He knew they’d try though. Taeyong because _he could_ and Ten because he didn’t _like_ Jungwoo. Which was Ten’s own issue -- Jungwoo wouldn’t concern himself with it. 

Except... 

That Ten was acting upset about anything was _beyond_ him -- as far as he knew, Ten didn’t even _like_ Doyoung enough to care. Why was he so concerned about what _Doyoung’s_ boyfriend did and with who? 

And Jungwoo won’t feel _guilty_ about it. Jaehyun was a big boy, he made his own decisions. If Doyoung didn’t agree with them, or _know_ about them, that spoke more to their relationship -- or lack thereof -- than it did about _Jungwoo_. 

Jungwoo wouldn’t put himself in the hot-seat for it. And surely, Doyoung knew his handsome and _overpaid_ boyfriend was liable to be only but _so_ faithful. 

Jungwoo could imagine it honestly, Doyoung finding out. And he imagines a civil conversation where Doyoung simply _accepts_ that it’s happened. Doesn’t scream or shout or _anything_ , just _accepts_ it and continues on. No mention of a breakup or anything -- because Doyoung is _smarter_ than that, and playing dumb is a real thing smart people do. 

Doyoung can be the ‘faithful wife’ to a philandering husband -- Jungwoo knows he can. Knows Jaehyun loves Doyoung enough to make it work, even without ‘the kids’ to guilt him into it; knows Jaehyun can count blessings -- can count on Doyoung to always clean up the messes he makes. 

And Jungwoo is _happy_ for them. 

Would like to remind Ten that wanting to _fuck_ Jaehyun -- _fucking_ Jaehyun -- was different than wanting to date him -- to _marry_ him; even _if_ Jaehyun was likely become a ‘rich as fuck CEO’ in the next 5 five years. Jungwoo wasn’t that cruel -- Doyoung had hired him afterall. 

And really, if Jungwoo wanted to _ponder_ on it, or think critically about it, he’d say that Ten was just _jealous_ that things hadn’t worked out, _weren’t_ working out, the way he had planned for them too. All that conniving and scheming and bending over backwards and Johnny still _wasn’t_ interested in him -- would _never_ be.

And to think, Ten had gone all the way to _America_ to get his fancy master’s degree -- and for what? To prove to Johnny he was _worthy_? Hoped that Johnny would _miss_ him? 

Jungwoo wanted to laugh. Ten was a _fool_. Pining after Johnny like some love-sick idiot. 

Johnny wasn’t interested in Ten -- _couldn’t be_. It wasn’t in his DNA. Guys like Johnny, were _never_ interested in guys like Ten.

For as much as the ‘made-men’ of society preached the whole ‘power couple’ mantra, Jungwoo had _yet_ to see where they had actually pursued an equal instead of chasing down some delicate little spinner. And it wasn’t just about _size_ , because Ten, pipsqueak that he was, had advantage there, instead, it was about attitude, it was about perception -- _vulnerability_. 

And Ten was a _sure_ thing. An _easy_ thing for Johnny. He could have him whenever he wanted, so why would he even bother? Ten wasn’t _vulnerable_ \-- was the exact opposite; and for that reason alone, he would never do. 

Taeyong though? Well, that was different. 

Taeyong was an asshole because he needed to be. Was selfish out of necessity. A _user_ because why not? 

Taeyong used everyone's desires _against them_ , and in a way, Jungwoo respected him for that. And sure, when he was cutting you down to size, or threatening to fire you on the spot, it was hard to remember that oftentimes, you were only in the situation because of your own determination to have, what _didn’t want to be had_. 

Those rules didn’t apply to Johnny though. Would never. 

Johnny _wanted_ Taeyong -- had spent _years_ wearing Taeyong down, removing everyone and everything that stood in his way because he _could_ , because he wanted to, because he was _determined_ to have him. Would rather do that than to even go on a _single_ date with Ten. And 

Ten, clouded by his own brand of jealousy had _helped_ Johnny on his quest, not even realizing it. 

Jealous of Taeyong, and Jungwoo knows, _Johnny knew he would be_ ; had likely _planned_ on it. 

And goodness, Jungwoo wishes people paid more attention to how clever Johnny could be. 

The staff meeting is tense, Haechan gives a half-assed presentation on the two -- out of the needed thirty -- things he’s completed for the upcoming meeting with Paint By Wong, which Taeyong shreds through easily. He’s snide, and cruel in that way that only beautiful people can get away with. Pointing out obvious gaps and mistakes, highlighting the clear leaps in logic and overall weak logistics. 

Everyone comes to Haechan’s defense -- piling on in a rare show of solidarity.

Except for Jungwoo. 

Because he’s not an idiot. 

“I can tell you all right now, Lucas won’t like _any_ of this.” 

Taeyong speaks with such conviction, that it makes Jungwoo want to hurl. And he knows it’s just a weak attempt at taking back control. Taeyong hates when he’s without power, when everyone is looking at him, but not seeing him; hearing him, but not listening to him. It’s a defense mechanism. 

Johnny really is dangerous. 

“I think Lucas will have some questions, but won’t disagree overall.” -- Johnny is curt, and he gives Taeyong a pointed look. It’s a power-play. 

They all wait with bated breath. 

And Jungwoo can see it there, the burn of anger in Taeyongs face. He wants to riot, he wants anarchy -- but he won’t get it. Not when Johnny has spent _years_ turning them all against him. 

Taeyong huffs. “It’s like you’re all being paid to just fuck up or something.” 

The room goes quiet. 

Johnny, master manipulator that he is, places a hand on the back of Taeyong’s head, smooths down the non-existent fly-aways. It’s sweet -- intimate even. 

Taeyong allows it, and it turns Jungwoo on so, so much. 

“Taeyong, I think everyone is trying really hard at this, Haechan’s going to have something improved to show us by the end of the week.” 

They all nodd. 

“Jaehyun -- work on this with Haechan.” 

It’s a direct order from Johnny. 

How odd. 

Jungwoo doesn’t trust it -- trust _them_.

The team meeting ends and they don’t even make it to Jungwoo’s presentation so he ditches work and heads home early. He wants to call Jaemin, his favorite of ‘Mark’s fabled class’ but knows that Taeyong is likely on everyone’s ass after not getting his way. 

And Jungwoo feels _bad_ for him, if only because no one else will. 

And truly, Johnny should write a book on manipulation at such a scale. The way he was increasingly backing Taeyong into a corner. Leaving him with fewer and fewer options. 

Jungwoo can’t even imagine what it’s like to have that level of self-control. 

To decide you wanted something and then, go about attaining it in the most vicious way possible -- a decades worth of battles to win a singular war. 

Had given him Mark, only to take him a way -- a sort of warning, if you will. 

Haechan, had been incidental -- and maybe Johnny _had_ taken some sort of liking to him overtime, but Jungwoo isn’t stupid. Johnny had listened to the jealous burn in Haechan’s voice when he spoke of Mark and _knew_ he could count on Haechan to do whatever it took _to be rid of him_. 

And he did. 

Jungwoo can respect Haechan for that; he wouldn’t have had the guts. 

And it’s not like Mark’s truly _suffering_ or anything. 

And maybe it’s not the _ideal_ situation for him, but he’s in a far better predicament than most. 

Jungwoo won’t _mourn_ for him. 

But he does _feel_ bad. 

Remind him to never get on Haechan’s bad side.

Jungwoo has daily meetings with Doyoung that _should_ be weird for him, with the whole ‘fucking your boyfriend, _repeatedly_ over the course of -- well, since I was hired _three years ago_ ’ thing, but decidedly _aren’t_. And Jungwoo doesn’t know how he got so cold -- when it happened or why, but he knows a better man would feel some form of guilt - some queasy jolt of shame or cowardice. 

Jungwoo doesn’t feel a thing. 

The sex is good, which helps. 

And maybe it’s because he trusts Doyoung to understand, because that’s what Doyoung did. He _understood_ \-- he mother-henned, he _protected_. And Jungwoo _knows_ he is asking a lot, but seeing as how it’s the only thing he’s _ever_ asked for, he hopes Doyoung understands. 

Needs him to. 

And of course, Jungwoo will never _tell_ him -- he didn’t see it as something to lord over him, it wasn’t a _one-up_ to him in the least. Bragging about fucking Jaehyun was like bragging you had been born -- _hadn’t everyone?_ And Doyoung is _sweet_ , holds it all together so perfectly, so effortlessly that Jungwoo _wants_ to hate him, _wants_ to ruin his life. 

But he can’t. 

And Jungwoo wants to feel bad about lying to Doyoung, about all of it, _everything_ , but can’t really muster up the energy to do that either. 

And it’s not worth it. 

Jungwoo wasn’t going to _stop_ fucking Jaehyun either though. 

And it was about way more than _Jaehyun_ , it was about Doyoung’s _life_ \-- what Doyoung deserved to keep. If Doyoung wanted to believe Jaehyun was an angel; if he wanted to believe Johnny had good intentions -- wanted to believe Johnny was _good_ , that was his right. Jungwoo wouldn’t stop him -- wouldn’t rip off his rose colored glasses and ruin him with reality. Doyoung was simply a casualty of war. 

Doyoung could afford to be -- even if he let his insecurities tell him otherwise. 

He wasn’t so different from Taeyong, just didn’t have a ‘Johnny’ to enable him. Jaehyun didn’t need to be. Doyoung was trapped by perceptions he created in his mind. 

Jaehyun would never bless him with the richness of truth -- would never benefit him to do so. 

And really, what more could Jungwoo even say on the matter? 

Jungwoo cums with a feeling of serenity. He’s waited _all day_ for this. Lies in the afterglow, in his and Jaehyun’s own mess and just...lies there. He listens as Jaehyun cleans himself up, hears the mumbled ‘here’ as Jaehyun tosses a damp cloth onto his back and still, feels no need to move. It’s _his_ house after all. He can be free here.

He can be real here. 

This is Jungwoo. 

Jaehyun pets him on the head as he pulls up his boxers, he’s _large_ , even when soft and Jungwoo licks his lips at the rush he’d felt _before_ \-- earlier in the evening when he’d first stripped Jaehyun of his belt and left little kisses down his neck as he discarded his shirt. Walked him from the living room to the bed in a blur of lust and _need_. 

“You coming into the office tomorrow?” Jaehyun breaks the silence in time with the ‘zip’ of his zipper. Jungwoo rises onto his elbows and lets his fringe cover his face, “thinking about it…” he responds, nothing too definitive. He doesn’t like feeling trapped within the choices he makes. 

“By the way, how is your work with Haechan coming,” Jungwoo is curious. Johnny pretends he doesn’t value Jaehyun, doesn’t _trust_ him to be good at his job, but Jungwoo knows better, Jungwoo can see the writings on the wall. He sees, even if they don’t want him too. 

Jaehyun pulls his shirt over his head, abs flexing as he does so, and Jungwoo wants to run his tongue along each individual ridge, again. The night is still young. 

“Well,” Jaehyun starts, runs a hand through his hair, checks his phone for missed calls and ignored texts, “you know, Doyoung is much better at logistics than I am, so he’s helping with that.” 

Jungwoo should be surprised but isn’t. Jaehyun checks himself out in the full body mirror Jungwoo has in the corner of his room. 

“Yeah, Doyoung is good at that,” Jungwoo replies, tries not to be too forceful with it, too angry about it. 

Jungwoo should _hate_ Doyoung, but he can’t. 

He doesn’t _want_ Jaehyun -- he _doesn’t_ and it pisses him off that Jaehyun has once again sent Doyoung to clean up his messes. 

“What do you think the future looks like for us?” Jungwoo slurs out lazily, being angry makes him tired. 

Jaehyun pauses, buttons the collar of his shirt and makes a face like he’s preparing to meet with a hard-nosed client. 

Jungwoo saves him; “do you ever think about where Muse might be in 10 years? Do you think Johnny will keep us all around?” He makes eye contact with Jaehyun through the mirror. 

Jaehyun de-tenses, gives a dimpled smirk. 

“We’re not bad people, so I like to think, the future is awash with possibilities, we’re all just getting started.” 

He pats Jungwoo on the ass as he slips his shoes on. Jungwoo waves him off from the dry side of the bed; drifts off to sleep with that as the last thing he hears and isn’t surprised to find himself in the midst of a nightmare. 

Dreams aren’t reality and nightmares do come true.


	11. Jaemin: Party Lines

Na Jaemin loves his job; sure, he’s a glorified coffee runner, but he’s a glorified coffee runner for _Muse:Seoul_ , and that’s more than most can say. 

Jaemin doesn’t doubt everyone who preaches to him about _making a difference in the world_ and _earning a living_ would give up their ‘ _analyst_ ’ gigs and ‘ _manager_ ’ roles to ‘ _run coffee_ ’ at Muse:Seoul if given the chance. 

Because it’s cool. And being cool is...well, _cool_. 

There is _prestige_ in simply the name. A bit like Vogue if you will -- the kind of place where you don’t care that the pay is shit because it was more about ‘ _how you live’ than ‘earning a living_ ’. A movement, a lifestyle, a _culture_ of which Jaemin considered himself a keeper. He evolved with it and it evolved with him. He lived it.  
He owned it. 

And Jaemin isn't shallow, he’s _honest_ when he says ‘hunger is temporary, style is forever.’ So yes, he _is_ decidedly behind on rent after blowing his paycheck on a Y/Project sweater because he cared more about _looking_ like he had a place to sleep, than actually _keeping_ said place to sleep. But that was _normal_ in the industry. Faking it till you made it, was about the only way to _truly_ make it, if you hadn’t inherited a Tang Dynasty era vase, original Bacon or Renoir. 

Which Jaemin hadn’t. 

Mark understood. 

Truly though, wasn’t that part of the whole ‘networking’ and ‘appearances’ thing everyone was always preaching about? They always say ‘looking the part is half the battle’ -- Jaemin considers his Acne Studios jumper and Jun Takahashi jeans, fatigues in their own right. 

And, if he was continuing on his righteous path of _honesty_ , at his age, a ripe 21, he didn’t see the _need_ to work such a serious, _industrious_ job; doesn’t want to be saddled with data and deadlines and ‘audits’ of his work -- doesn’t want to ever need to stay at the office until 1am -- absolutely abhors the thought of ‘midnight takeout’ in a spartan conference room. He _wants_ to party. Wants to wake up in an empty clawfoot tub covered in glitter, a pink Nat Sherman in his hand, eyeliner smudged to hell and back; wants to have philosophical debates about the ‘meaning of life,’ high on edibles while drinking a 2009 Bordeaux from Château Cheval Blanc; wants to do fish-scale with a random stripper, flutes of warm Moet dripping onto an antique hardwood floor; wants to cure his hangovers with mimosas and avocado toast and then call an expensive town car he _couldn’t afford_ to take him back to his ritzy studio in Apgujeong which he also _couldn’t afford_. 

Mark understood that too. 

He _wanted_ to not have to give a single fuck. 

Live fast, die young and all that jazz. 

And it’s not that Jaemin has no goals or ambitions, it’s just…well, where’s the _fun_ in all that? 

Call him lazy and he’ll call you a fool. 

And it wasn’t even that he could claim he was working ‘smarter, not harder’ because he couldn’t claim he was doing any work at all. He was quick to pawn off things he didn’t want to do; to suggest that the memo Taeyong wanted typed up would surely be better off in someone else's hands, the copies Jaehyun needed, 100% sounded like a job for, well, anyone that _wasn’t_ him. 

And it wasn’t that he didn’t care about his upward mobility -- his _career_ ; it was more that he hadn’t had _time_ for all of that office stuff when he needed to be picking out outfits for all the parties he was going to. He certainly _couldn’t_ show up to the Jeju beach party and the Gangnam penthouse bash in the _same_ Saint Laurent brogues. People would talk for _days_. He’d be regulated to Thursday Happy Hour at Signiel Seoul, which was _nice_ but far from the rambunctiousness he wanted to partake in.

Jaemin misses Mark, if only because Mark understood _it_ , understood _him_.

It doesn’t stop Jaemin from understanding Haechan either, though it did put him in a _difficult_ position. 

While Haechan had spent the days and nights making lists of the reasons why Mark wasn’t worthy and would _never_ be, Jaemin spent his days obsessing, revering, _idolizing_. He couldn’t imagine wanting to be anything other than a mirror image, even if he lacked the same aggressive work ethic. He wanted people to look upon him too, and believe he _deserved_ , simply because he existed. 

They, Mark and Haechan, both had their faults. Haechan seemed to be under the impression that Mark succeeded because Taeyong found him perfect -- Jaemin didn’t believe that to be true; Mark succeeded because Taeyong found Haechan imperfect in comparison. Haechan wasn’t _similar_ to him in the way that Mark was -- it was never about Mark’s perfection as much as it was about what Mark _represented_. Mark represented Taeyong; a chance to start again, a chance to begin anew. A chance to right his wrongs. Do better, be better. 

Taeyong doted on Mark, sure; and of all the interns, he _knew_ Mark; could call him by name instead of simply peering down with narrowed, concentrated eyes, _trying_ to recall if he’d ever _seen_ you around before, and if he had, were you doing something useful or just existing? Another paycheck he had to sign with no tangible result.

Kind of like Jaemin. 

But it wasn’t because Taeyong had been _wowed_ by the first thing Mark had done, or because he had perceived Mark as the great new hope of Muse:Seoul; no, it all went back to _Johnny_. And Jaemin doesn’t doubt that Taeyong would’ve preferred Mark, even without Johnny, but certainly, Johnny had helped. 

What Johnny says is the truth. That’s the mantra they live by. There can be no objections. Johnny is reality. 

Jaemin recalls it perfectly, their intern class walking through the sliding glass doors, the chosen 15 coming face to face with the future; a king, a God. They have passed his test and will serve him dutifully, heads bowed low in deference. 

Johnny is all smiles and soft hair wrapped up in a bespoke, Kiton K-50 suit that costs more than Jaemin’s parents make in a year. 

Jaemin is in love. 

Johnny spreads his arms, peers down at them with wide and glassy eyes, and for a brief moment, Jaemin can see that he means _everything_ he says about ‘the future’ of Muse:Seoul. They all nod eagerly, wanting it to mean something to them in particular, to them _specifically_. 

Ten, Johnny’s assistant, leads them down to the gallery, which is set up in a banquet fashion. They are asked -- _advised_ \-- to spread out, but like little lambs, they heard together. They follow Mark, because it just _seems_ like the right thing to do for reasons Jaemin can’t explain. He himself wants to sit nearest to Mark, to touch him, hold him, feel him; to take shelter in his hardened determination, _and so he does_ \-- leans closer to breathe in Mark's air, to be calmed and soothed by it. 

He can’t help himself. 

It’s addicting. 

The leadership team walks in moments later, Johnny and Taeyong walking in last. Johnny escorts Taeyong with a hand on the small of his back, a jovial look in his eyes; Taeyong is firm faced, eyes darting around the room in utter contempt. He hates them all already. Sees little use in them before they’ve even gotten a chance to speak -- to prove it.

Johnny makes a show of looking around the room before his eyes settle -- lighting up in a way that makes Jaemin’s skin crawl. 

“Ah, Mark, why don’t you kick off the introductions of the interns” Johnny starts, he makes direct eye-contact with Mark and smiles, voice mellow and relaxed. Taeyong’s head snaps in Mark’s direction at the pointed acknowledgement, gaze hardening as Mark goes through the motions; Mark's eloquent and clumsy all at once. Captivating. 

Taeyong’s gaze never wavers. 

“And the rest of you,” Johnny glances around the room, and Jaemin hears Haechan huff, feeling dejected at being regulated to a nameless face in the crowd. Haechan stands up with unbridled determination; his introduction is riddled with back-ended self-compliments and obvious self-praise. 

Taeyong’s eye steel in a way akin to _disgust_. 

“We’ve taken a good look at your placements and have made some shifts to assignments for the rest of the year; please listen for your name and assignment. Assignments will begin effective starting Monday. Ahn Eun Jin: Accounting; Bae Young Soo: Sales; Choi Ah Ra: Public Relations - Media,” Jaemin tunes Doyoung out for a bit, lets his eyes roam the room. Watches Jaehyun feign interest and Yuta plays with his phone. “...Lee Haechan: Marketing; Lee, Mark: Legal/Board Liaison Team,” Jaemin swallows down his surprise, his nervousness. “Na Jaemin: Public Relations - Events and Outreach.” 

He breathes a sigh of relief -- his _ideal_ placement. He almost passes out, forces himself to have his mind wonder instead; comes-to at just the right moment. 

Something feels off. 

“...and I want to assure you all, that you’ve been doing some great work. We feel, and I personally believe, that this has been the best class we’ve had since we started the Muse: Seoul internship program. Please, do not feel upset or slighted if you have been reassigned -- understand that all reassignments were carefully considered by the leadership team and are not, in any way, reflective of performance in your current role. Reassignments are due to a need to redistribute man-power based on the current workflow, where we see the current need, and whose skills best match that need.” 

Doyoung finishes off the pre-typed and legally approved speech in the large meeting room, as the interns' knuckles go white and their eyes get a misty, watery sheen. Some are happy, and some are sad. 

Everyone is curious. 

Everything feels wrong. 

“What if we don’t agree with our assignments? What if we don’t think we have any talent in that arena?” It’s Eun Jin, who hates everything about math, and is now assigned to the _accounting_ team. Talk about back-office and shit luck. 

Doyoung sigh, a small smile on his face. “Johnny personally reassigned all of you based on your strengths as individuals. Working in a unit, like accounting, for example, doesn’t mean you’ll need to start running ROI models for us. We might be looking for your keen eye and attention to detail in order to spot translation errors and ensure compliance with reporting requirements. This also does not preclude you from getting a work-placement in the unit you had originally applied for or had previously been assigned.” 

Doyoung looks around the room, tense but determined. “Mark; sorry but you’ll need to start with Legal right away, please clear your desk in Marketing and settle at cube 721, the board meeting is next week and we need you integrated into the logistics of preparation by COB.” 

Mark simply nods, a small smile on his face, but Jaemin can see the cracks of doubt that mar his features. 

Mark is _worried_ and it makes Jaemin feel cold. 

Nothing is right about this. 

And Jaemin isn’t an expert on anything in particular, but he knows Taeyong would rather let someone double process his hair than keep Haechan on his team.

Jaemin leans over and gives Haechan an assuring shoulder squeeze, letting him know that things will be ‘OK’ -- things will get better. 

He expects Haechan to hang his head, to wipe at his eyes, to be upset and devastated. 

Instead, Haechan looks over his shoulder back at Jaemin and _smiles._

It makes Jaemin’s skin crawl. 

Something is wrong.


	12. Lucas: Owner of Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the first round POVs! Lucas! 
> 
> Warning that this chapter starts off with an explicit scene. If you're not into that, you might want to scroll, even though, his thought process and what he says during might be helpful... _might be_...but if you're not into that, it's ok! He says (and does) a lot of stuff during this chapter that might give you insight to his character... 
> 
> Also, just a note the dialogue and behavior here is not condoned by me in anyway shape or form. I personally do not think it's cute or romantic, but this is part of the story. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

Lucas runs a hand down Mark’s sweat slicked back; looks up, through hooded eyes in awe at the sight before him; can barely even believe it’s real. 

The disbelief surprises him in a way; Lucas almost always gets what he wants, and he’d wanted this -- shouldn’t be surprised to have it; wasn’t really, and yet in a way, it still amazed him that this was reality. 

Mark is _his_. 

Lucas, in all his years on earth, had never been prouder to possess something. 

Mark's hair sticks to his forehead, and his dick stands at attention, hard and red and leaking against the firm, sweat shined skin of his taut stomach, and Lucas wraps his hands around the curve of his narrow waist, thrusting up subtly as Mark grinds against him. 

Lucas feels so good; Mark feels so good but it’s not enough for him, it’s _never_ enough, and he wants more, _needs_ it. 

He reaches a hand up, pulls Mark down so they are chest to chest, and into a frenzied kiss, holds Mark’s small face firmly in his hand, watches with rapt attention as Mark slowly surrenders, lets him do as he pleases. 

“You’re so perfect,” Lucas whispers against Mark’s parted mouth, as he wraps himself around Mark’s smaller body, kissing his Adam's apple gently before nuzzling his head between Mark’s neck and shoulder, nipping softly at the warm skin.

Lucas rolls them both over onto their sides, lifts Mark’s thin leg up at the knee and buries himself inside using one swift motion, bottoming out as Mark convulses and shakes against him, small hands grasping at the sheets as he tries to twist away from the tortuous pain-pleasure of being so full. 

He tightens his grip on Mark’s leg and snakes an arm across his chest to keep him still. 

Lucas thrusts deliberately; dragging along Marks rim before sinking back in slowly. 

Mark is tight and hot and wet, he vibrates around Lucas, clenching around him in the most pleasurable of embraces. Like a custom sheath -- it’s divine. 

And Lucas understands now, how addictions thrive as easily as imagination in the mind. 

He mouths against Mark’s nape, and then suckles at the skin of his exposed throat when Mark tips his head back over his shoulder, his smaller body spasming against Lucas' chest as he presses against Mark’s prostate. 

“You like that?” Lucas grinds out, swiveling his hips in a circular motion. Mark can only nod and pant; incoherent babble spills from his lips. _He’ll be good, Lucas makes him feel so good._

Lucas thrusts faster, jackhammering into Mark who simply gasps for breath. The sound of sweat slicked skin slapping against sweat slicked skin in unbridled passion resonates through the room as Lucas loses himself; overcome by how amazing this all is -- that he gets to bask in this feeling of absolute pleasure.

“Oh— oh yes, yes! Lucas, please, don’t stop, please—oh!” Mark gasps out, delirious with unfettered need. Lucas flips him over so that he’s on his stomach, he wants to cum in the most dominant position; drapes himself over Mark, naked chest against naked back, runs his hands through Mark’s sweaty hair, yanking his head back in a show of supremacy and strength. 

“See?” Lucas rasps in Mark’s ear, feels his orgasm rushing in on him from all sides. “See how perfect you are like this? You were made for me; my gorgeous boy. You’re all mine aren’t you?”

Mark whines, and Lucas slots their mouths together so he can taste the sound. 

That too, he must possess; is angered by the thought that Mark was ever anything other than his. 

“Take it —take it! Fuck!” 

Lucas is losing his grip on reality, but it’s everything he’s ever wanted and it’s _his_. 

“Why don’t you cum for me sweetie, come on and cum for me.” Lucas groans out, grinding against Mark’s ass, pushing expertly against all the right places. 

And Mark does; spills across his own stomach and onto Lucas $2,500 sheets as his body goes limp and boneless. 

Mark’s inner walls squeeze and massage Lucas’ completely and his will shatters; he roars to completion, his vision going stark white as he empties himself; for a brief moment, he fears me might go blind.

A small price to pay. 

Lucas is in heaven.

“Don’t lie to me.” Is the first thing Taeyong says once Lucas picks up the phone -- there are no pleasantries. Lucas relaxes; he’s prepared for this, is ready for it -- has been waiting. 

And of course, anything that comes out of his mouth will be nothing _but_ lies. 

Taeyong will just have to deal. 

Lying is something that Lucas finds comes second nature to him; and it’s nothing to do with him being _inherently_ dishonest, and everything to do with necessity. He finds that for his job, in his role, he must lie. There is no room for truth. 

And it’s not that he doesn’t have them, truths, that is; he has so many that they’ve become more a burden than the lies he could’ve told instead. Another man might be proud of that, Lucas however, feels foolish. 

Lies are _necessary_. Part of the very fabric of something a bit beyond society -- they represent the very essence of life. A symbiotic mutualism that can’t be ignored. Lucas had chosen not to live in the steady poverty of truth when lies were rich and exciting. There was flexibility there, in the lies. The lies he told and the lies he heard; they could absorb shocks, they _are_ resilient. They stood too tall, and were too grande -- couldn't be easily knocked over by mere truth. 

Lies are real. Lucas believes in that. Had always believed in that. 

He can't find a lie he wishes he hadn’t told. 

“Does Johnny know you’re calling me like this?” is his paused response. He smiles at the quiet that blankets the line. And he knows it’s a low blow, the definition of fighting dirty, but Taeyong merely _looks_ like a damsel in distress -- he behaves like a practiced sniper. 

“I don’t need-” 

“Should I get Johnny on the line?” Lucas interrupts, and he _knows_ he’s pissing Taeyong off in the worst possible way, but giving Taeyong an inch is giving him whole highways and Lucas can’t allow that. They’ve all worked too hard. In time, Taeyong would see that too, but he’d always been more stubborn than most. 

“How much did you pay them?” Taeyong is steady. And Lucas isn’t surprised at this either -- Taeyong has always been formidable, always been the solid rock in the formation. But there’s just the slightest tremor in his voice, and Lucas knows he can thank Johnny for that. 

“Taeyong, listen-”

“I don’t _want_ to listen,” 

“You called _me_ , and asked _me_ a question, I assumed listening would be involved in that.” 

Taeyong is quiet again, but Lucas can hear his heartbeat in his chest. 

“Mark can be somebody you know,” his voice is hard and gritty. Lucas smiles. 

“He’s somebody now, not the somebody _you wanted_ him to be, but somebody still…” 

And there’s a selfless-ness in there somewhere, that the world has chosen to ignore; so concentrated on the unsavory, sour portions that give them cause to tell their bitter, hurtful truths. 

And it’s pointless, Lucas thinks with a sneer -- no one ever believes the truth. They take comfort in the lies, they take comfort in the fantasy. They make it _real_. 

Just like Taeyong -- believer of things that aren’t real, that don’t exist, that _can’t_ exist. 

“Don’t make him over.” 

Lucas pauses, takes a sip of his drink, tries not to spit it out -- he’s told Renjun a thousand times to _fuck off_ with adding mint to the water. 

“I’ll-”

Taeyong hangs up. 

If Lucas was being honest, which was _rare_ , he’d say his relationship with Mark was built on trust and honesty.

And by that he means the trust and honestly he had in _himself_ to be nothing but what he’d been raised to be. 

Ruthless. 

He’d never not gotten his way, and he’d never, for a single, solitary second believed that _this_ should be different. _These are people’s lives_ , he hears the weak muscle of morality say. But he can’t be bothered with all that. It was his life too -- why should he settle for less than what he wanted? 

The only mantra he can truly believe in. 

He’d _wanted_ to believe in Mark too. Does. 

Had _wanted_ Mark, and so, he’d _taken_ him. It hadn’t even been a question. He hadn’t _cared_ what Mark thought, or was thinking, or even _would_ think. That hadn’t been important to him, and in a lot of ways, it _still_ wasn't. And he _maybe_ sort of gets it -- how that could be considered _wrong_ ; but really, Mark couldn’t be trusted to make his own decisions, have his own thoughts. Lucas would take care of him, would guide him. 

Mark was like Taeyong in a way, just younger, less hardened -- more malleable; another believer of things that aren’t real, that don’t exist, that _can’t_ exist. 

Mark’s _not_ the frail disciple they make him out to be, but he’s not a seasoned soldier either. Lucas can work with that -- is. 

It hadn’t surprised Lucas -- that’s how _they_ tended to be, _needed_ to be, in order to survive. 

Lucas will teach him. 

And if you’d ask Lucas what the overwhelming attraction was -- _is_ \-- well, just like he’d kept Mark for himself, he’d keep that to himself too; truths _hurt_ \-- enough damage has been done. And Mark himself has never asked that of Lucas, because Mark _knows_. And Lucas can imagine that he lulls himself to sleep at night pretending it’s absolutely _anything_ else. 

Old adages always ring true. 

You find what you seek. 

In reality though, lies are only as dishonest as you make them.

Lucas decides to take Mark to lunch -- boldly laces their fingers together as they walk through the hallways of Paint by Wong towards the elevator. Mark is shy -- as always -- lowers his head, squeezes his eyes shut, tries his hardest to pull away, to disappear. Lucas is stronger, anchors him in the moment. 

“Why are you so embarrassed?” and it’s not a _real_ question, Lucas doesn’t _care_. Mark should get used to this, will _have_ to. 

Mark looks up at him, that stern, _professional_ look in his eyes that reminds Lucas so much of Taeyong it’s a bit of a mind-fuck, “I’m not _embarrassed_ , it’s…we don’t need to hold hands,” he speaks in a hushed tone, his eyes darting around the elevator lobby. 

“We fucked for 3 hours last night” and Lucas doesn’t lower his voice -- the lobby is empty anyway. “We’re beyond hand holding.” 

Mark’s eyes go wide as Renjun rounds the corner. And of course, Renjun doesn’t say anything; knows better than that. 

“I’ll take the next one,” and it’s said in the most polite tone one can possibly muster after having heard about his boss’ sex life. 

Renjun has always been so considerate. The little weirdo. 

“No, ride with us,” Lucas can be generous -- he knows Renjun wants to see for himself, see it in action.

Never say that he didn’t do it for the little people. 

And while Lucas relaxes, Mark tenses as Renjun steps inside, the plethora of rumors this will breed likely rolling through his mind in a wave. 

It gives Lucas a thrill. 

Lucas is _deliberate_. Pulls Mark flush against him, chest to chest, as he noses the junction between Mark’s neck and shoulder, softly kisses the side of his jaw, lets his hand slide down to rest gently on the round of his ass -- squeezes as he sticks his tongue down Mark’s throat, grinds their hips together.

It’s totally uncalled for, outrageously lewd, highly unprofessional. 

Lucas can’t find a single fuck to give about any of that. 

And because Mark is _only human_ he moans into it, and as a reward, Lucas lets him _breathe_. Redirects his wet lips to Mark’s neck as they reach the ground floor. 

“Enjoy your lunch Renjun.” 

Lucas threads his and Mark’s fingers together again, pulling him towards the awaiting town car, which will take them to Man Wah, a quirky little Cantonese place and one of his favorite lunch spots. 

Renjun simply nods. 

Mission Accomplished. 

As usual, the laymen protect the rich. 

The rich, feast on the poor.


	13. Jaehyun: Score Keeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to R2 of the POVs -- first up: Jaehyun!! 
> 
> Warning for brief mention of violence towards a partner. It's very brief, just one sentence, but in the event that it's triggering for you, this is a warning. If anyone has suggestions for how to tag something like this, I'd very much appreciate it. 
> 
> Also, again, as with the last chapter, I do not condone this type of behavior in a relationship. If your partner is at all like this, please leave.

Checking Account: ₩ 1,792,432,492.15

Jaehyun whistles. 

He’s a little low, but he did just spend ₩ 50,903,370 on an anniversary trip for Doyoung -- he doesn’t regret that. Should’ve _probably_ spent more, but Doyoung was a lot less materialistic than any of his ex’s. Would probably think Jaehyun had spent too much on even this. Jaehyun’s looking forward to it -- the two week sojourn to Bora Bora -- he hasn’t had a real vacation in 2 years; the weekend trips to Hyeopjae are nice but are too quick and too close to feel entirely like he’s been _away_. 

And, it’s a little selfish, he understands, the trip is more for him than it is Doyoung, but Doyoung will enjoy it either way; Jaehyun will make sure of it, make sure there are no distractions or calls from Taeyong to get him all riled up and bring him out of body. Jaehyun would like it, if for once, Doyoung could simply relax and enjoy. He’d _earned_ it. _Deserved_ it. 

“Seems like you’re in a good mood.” Haechan leans against the door frame, arms folded over his chest. 

Jaehyun has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Is there a reason why you’re loitering?” he closes out of his browsers, pulling up his email instead. He’s learned to be precautious as of late and trusting Haechan is like trusting that the kid with the crisp hundreds isn’t wearing a wire. 

Haechan smirks, chin wrinkling and eyes gleaming -- it pisses Jaehyun off, he can’t even _believe_ he’s got to pretend to play nice with this little shit until Johnny fixes things. 

And it’s _awful_ in a weird and terrible way, because Haechan _likes_ him, considers him, in an odd way, sort of a surrogate older brother. And maybe, if Mark hadn’t been the other, _better_ option of the two, Jaehyun would like Haechan back, but he _can’t_ , he _couldn’t_. And it wasn’t as easy as simply liking _both_. He couldn’t do that either. It was against the rules. You _had_ to pick a side, even if you didn’t want too. 

And even that… Jaehyun had chosen Haechan out of _necessity_ , not out of loyalty. It bothers him that Haechan seemed so familiar with him. And yes, if Haechan and Mark were in a burning building, Jaehyun would save _Haechan_ , but that’s only because he _had_ to, and nothing to do with what he _wanted_ to do. 

Jaehyun is used to making concessions for the greater good, it’s only _incidental_ that they tend to benefit him most in the long-run. 

Anyways...

And it’s hypocritical of him, he _knows_ , but he’s _always_ been a hypocrite, he can admit to that. He’d fucked Jungwoo the first chance he got, hadn’t worried that Doyoung would find out, because he just _hadn’t worried_ \-- couldn’t be _bothered_ to; and then, not even two weeks later, had torn through Doyoung’s apartment in a fit of rage and jealousy, having found out that Doyoung, _his_ Doyoung, sweet and...well not _virginal_ , but still, not filthy like the rest of them, had gone to get dinner with some guy Jaehyun _didn’t know_. He’d been so upset at the mere thought of Doyoung enjoying someone else's company, that he’d even threatened to see other people, all the while, he’d planned to fuck Jungwoo that next night _anyway_. 

It was the same hypocritical bullshit now; he’s still _disgusted_ by the choices Haechan has made, which is rich, considering he’s made the same shitty choices. The only consolation he has for his bold hypocrisy are his _motives_. 

The only thing he can use to convince himself that he’s good. 

And he’s still going to keep fucking Jungwoo because...well, _why not?_

Because it’s wrong? 

Well… Jaehyun wasn’t _sure_ about that. It made _him_ feel good, and honestly, _honestly_ Doyoung _wouldn’t_ leave him for that. And maybe Jaehyun is human garbage for thinking that way, but it’s the truth. One of the few that he’s even allowed himself to think these past few months. 

Worst of all, he knows that if Doyoung were to confront him about it, he’d be mad for _all the wrong reasons_. And Jaehyun knows he would be. Upset at Doyoung for ruining a good time, for not just going with the flow, for breaking out of the carefully crafted mold Jaehyun had _given_ him. And Doyoung would cry, because he was crier and Jaehyun would feel like it _served him right_. And he’s awful for that. He _knows_ it. 

It doesn’t change how he feels. 

And still, he thinks, if Doyoung ever cheated on him -- he’d probably...very likely...and he’s not going to sugar coat this, kill him. 

That’s a fact. 

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

And again, he knows, he _knows_ , and yet, he can’t stop himself from taking solace in the fact that he hadn't been motivated by the same bitter hate as Haechan in any of the terribly shitty things he’s done -- will continue to do. It wasn’t who he was as a person. 

Crimes of passion weren’t crimes of a jilted lover -- there was no hate, just anger. 

And the worst of it all is, he knows he can get away with it. Knows that he can get everyone to force Doyoung to get over his own cheating, to accept it, while admonishing him for wanting to get even. They’d tell Jaehyun before Doyoung could even sign up for one of those stupid dating sites. 

And Jaehyun would shut it down. 

Life isn’t fair. 

But that’s not his problem. 

Jaehyun steals himself back to the present; Haechan has obviously been talking and he’s not been actively listening.

There is danger here. 

Haechan is unpredictable. 

“...all that to say, thanks for helping me out there, with the whole MOU thing; between you and Johnny, you guys always see the best in me.” 

And before Jaehyun can say anything, Haechan leaves. And he’s _grateful_ for that -- wonders how Johnny does it -- manages to convince people he actually _cares_ about them, when the reality was, he likely didn’t even remember their names. Jaehyun snorts a little and takes a sip of his coffee. He’d gone on a quick run to Felt with Jungwoo, who had convinced him to try an Iced Dirty Chai -- he’s loving it. 

Jaehyun can’t say he ever saw the best in Haechan. 

Seen the usefulness, sure, but the _best_? Jaehyun would have to take a raincheck on that. 

Johnny comes strolling in an hour later, he’s got a dozen of the fancy new creme brulee donuts they only sell at ‘Doughnut Plant’ in hand. 

Jaehyun is a fitness buff that makes concessions. 

“Howdy stranger,” Johnny starts, grabs a donut and takes a sip of his iced latte. Jaehyun smiles, reaches for a donut of his own and motions with a jutt of the chin for Johnny to close the door. 

They start with pointless pleasantries as always. 

“What’s been going on with you?”

“Nothing much; you?”

“Living the dream.” 

And it helps in a way, pretending like they’re good people at heart -- that they care. 

“Taeyong saw Kun.” Jaehyun starts easily, it’s better to get Johnny’s temperamental and unpredictable flares of anger out of the way early. Let him leave on a high-note -- maybe Jaehyun will get to keep the entire box of donuts. 

Johnny huffs and rolls his eyes, runs a hand through his hair; it’s getting longer than he typically wears it, but still looks nice. 

“It doesn’t even matter at this point, leave him to his wild goose chase, he’ll tire himself out.” 

Jaehyun nods at that, logically, it makes sense, but still…

“He’s convinced Kun’s up to something underhanded…” he takes a bite, the custard has just the right amount of vanilla. “...what do you think? Kun just running or -- he going off track?” 

Johnny stares at him, blinks once, twice. 

“Kun, is probably the least trustworthy person walking the face of the planet, we both know that, but whatever Kun is up to, I’m sure we can handle it.” 

Jaehyun nods again. 

“Should we tell Lucas?” 

“Has Yuta been acting suspicious lately?” 

What?

“What?” 

Johnny stares again. 

“Yuta... Nakamoto Yuta, has he been acting weird lately?” 

Jaehyun smiles, wills the sweat not to bead on his brow -- “he’s the same lousy legal counsel he’s always been, why?” 

And he tries to keep his body still, tries not to lean in too forward or too hastily. 

Johnny stares. 

“I don’t like when people lie to me.” 

Jaehyun squirms. 

Johnny and Taeyong, they both have this uncanny ability to make you feel like absolute shit even when you were perfectly within your rights to withhold information. 

He sighs, this is no time for altruism, it’s _never_ a time for altruism. “Well, he did send a weird text the other day, -- a random one, about deleting everything...I asked him to call me, but of course, in typical Yuta fashion, he never did.” 

Johnny twists his lips to the side, lets his eyes roam up towards the wall. 

“I guess it was Taeyong,” 

Jaehyun’s eyes go wide with surprised confusion, “Taeyong?” 

Johnny simply walks out. 

And if Jaehyun were any _decent_ sort of person -- and he’s _not_ \-- he’d warn Yuta about whatever is going on. Again though, he’s _not_ a remotely decent person and so he doesn’t. Yuta’s problems are his own. Jaehyun won’t involve himself. He’s got enough shit going on. 

Yuta can wave his own white flag. 

Doyoung and Ten are busy, so he grabs WinWin for a trip to some overpriced hotel restaurant for lunch. He’ll charge the company. As far as Jaehyun’s concerned it’s the absolute _least_ they could do. 

WinWin is quiet and Jaehyun likes him for that alone, he’s attractive but not really Jaehyun’s type -- simply someone he can be seen with. They make a good pair if only because WinWin finds just about everyone and everything intolerable. Similar to himself. 

The conversation over lunch is simple and light -- they joke while enjoying a generic tapas meal of Patatas bravas, Jamon Serrano, Croquetas, Gambas al Ajillo and Pimientos de Padrón while leisurely sipping manzanilla sherry. 

Jaehyun, borderline alcoholic that he is, knocks back 4 in the first hour of lunch as WinWin, an obvious lightweight, gets giggly about halfway through his first. 

“You know who I like,” WinWin starts, flushed face and glistening, his lids hang low over his eyes. Jaehyun simply quirks an eyebrow, he’s not _9_ and so this really isn’t his sort of conversation. Fuck _liking_ people at their age. He’s got a ‘partner’ and a second cell-phone full of side pieces. He listens only because he’s got nothing better to do. 

“I like Taeyong...I like how, you know, how he doesn’t believe anything until he sees it with his own eyes. I like that.” 

Jaehyun has no idea what the fuck WinWin is on about. 

“But you don’t want to fuck him or anything right?” 

WinWin makes a face. “Hell no.” he, probably foolishly, takes another long sip. “I like my job, imagine if I did sleep with Taeyong -- Johnny… Goodness.” 

And Jaehyun can _for sure_ drink to that. 

“I always like the ones who go away...like Mark, I liked Mark.” 

Jaehyun sighs. Didn’t they all? 

“Why did Haechan have to...I mean, everyone is fucking someone at the office…” 

“Well, except you...Ten too I guess” 

Jaehyun watches WinWin’s brows quirk. 

“Ten?” 

And Jaehyun doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or even his body. What is WinWin even saying? 

“Yeah, Ten isn’t-” 

“Well, yeah, no one in our office, but like... how did Lucas count if Kun doesn’t.” 

_What?_

“What?” 

WinWin belches. 

“Sorry, what was I saying about?” 

Fuck.


	14. Taeil: Sour.

Taeil has learned that staying out of the way is the easiest way to keep on Taeyong's proverbial ‘good side’; and by that he simply means: keep from getting fired. Because really, Taeyong didn’t _have_ a good side. He was decidedly _devoid_ of all traces of human empathy and just general _feeling_ \-- a robot -- a pretty, very human looking robot, but a robot nonetheless. 

That’s OK with Taeil, he’s big on sci-fi, and he’d enjoyed trying to fix his apartments toaster, meaning he likes machinery; he’s seen i-Robot, he’s not got a problem with androids; except, he’d _thought_ the whole concept of ‘evolving them’ was to make them more _human_ , not slap a pretty face on them and unleash them to enact mechanical tyranny onto the world -- or had he gotten that wrong? 

Or maybe that’s just what _he_ thought alone, because everyone else, as per usual, seems just _fine_ with Taeyong’s complete disregard for basic human decency. And Taeil would say something, wants to, but knows he’s not really got the social capital to say much of _anything_. Johnny won’t see anything _wrong_ with making your staff feel like Grade A shit because they'd put three cubes of sugar in his coffee instead of two -- would feel they _deserved_ it. Jaehyun would pretend to care for all of five seconds before he fucked off to...well, likely, _fuck off_. Doyoung would make excuses for Taeyong _and_ Jaehyun. Yuta. 

And really, that’s just fucking dandy. 

“I think you’re overreacting a bit,” Taeil manages to grit out, as Taeyong glares at the back of -- goodness, Taeil can’t even remember this one’s name, she’s only been here two weeks...Ji Woo? Ji Won?...he’ll go with Ji Won -- _Ji Won’s_ head. 

Really, Ji Won’s not done anything wrong, the only one who had gotten Taeyong’s _quirks_ had been Mark...and look where _that_ had gotten him. Taeil tries not to be smug about it, but he doesn’t try too hard. 

Taeyong glares back at him, and for a brief second, Taeil forgets he’s got student loans and is in need of a new car, before he reels it back in. If he could have a day where he could say all he _wanted_ to say though… _goodness_ , Taeil can’t even think about that. All that pent up anger and rage and...he _won’t_ call it jealousy. He’d _never_ been jealous of Taeyong. He’d thought he was an unrepentant _ass_ , a piece of shit human and the definition of batshit fucking _insane_ , but he _never_ considered that it was the base of any underlying _jealously_. 

His therapist had disagreed. 

And then he’d gone ahead and quit the whole ‘therapy’ thing -- considers it _definitively_ overrated. 

Taeil tries to be level -- “I miss Mark too,” he starts; tries not to let it sound too much like the lie they both know it is; “must be hard to function without…” -- and Taeil _wants_ to say _‘your evil little mini-me_ ’-- “your right-hand man.”

It’s safer. 

Taeyong simply blinks back at him, before he lets out the most _condescending_ snort Taeil’s ever heard in his entire life. 

“Fuck you; you’re such a sorry piece of literal shit; you could give a fuck about me _or_ Mark -- I’m sure, stupid little pencil pusher you are, you were glad to see the back of him despite the fact that he’d never done _anything_ to you.” 

Taeyong has the most punchable face Taeil’s ever seen in his _life_.

_No, fuck you, you absolute terror of a fucking human, you literal disgrace to mankind. You give a fuck about anyone that’s not you, and you’ve adopted Mark because he’s basically you, part 2. You hate me because I stopped kissing your ass; because I realized you weren’t so great and special after all._

But Taeil can’t _say_ any of that, wouldn’t _benefit_ anyone if he did. 

It wouldn’t even knock the wind out of Taeyong’s sails -- he’d simply weather the storm. Taeil’s words can do absolutely _nothing_ to hurt him -- he doesn’t _care_ enough about Taeil to where they would, where they could. 

And truth be told, if Taeil was leveling with you, it really fucking _hurts_. 

And it’s _not_ jealousy. 

“You’ve always been so _fucking jealous_ of Mark -- of _me_ \-- and why?” 

Internally, Taeil is hyperventilating -- he can’t, he _won’t_ , have this conversation. 

He was _never_ jealous -- _isn’t_. And he doesn’t know who cooked up this complete fabrication of who he is as a person, but it’s simply _not true_. Taeil was _bitter_ with _cause_ and he’d be _damned_ if Taeyong took that from him; swept it up in some baseless assertion of jealousy when it couldn’t be further from the truth. 

“No one has _ever_ been jealous of you.” 

Taeil can feel the snarl on his face. 

Taeyong has never been one to back down. He huffs in mock surprise, “You sabotaged me at every fucking chance you got; I asked you to take a doctor’s note to my organic chemistry professor, and then you fucking pretend to _be me_ \-- you intentionally _fuck a final_ I’d studied my _ass_ off for. And that’s all cause what? Cause you _weren’t_ jealous? You _weren’t_ upset that I was better than you at literally _everything_ \-- mad cause people _liked me more_ , despite your alleged brilliance -- in the end, you were just a fucking loser though, weren’t you?” 

Taeil can _feel _the throbbing in his head increase, repressed memories desperately trying to make their way to the forefront -- he can’t, _won’t_ , deal with this now. __

__“You _deserved_ it for-” _ _

__“And I was always so fucking _nice_ to you, even when I didn’t have to be -- but hey I'm charitable -- and even now, when I’m your fucking _boss_ and I hired you cause Johnny _begged_ me to, even though I knew you would be nothing but a pain in the ass; you don’t even care about art.” _ _

__“Johnny hired me, not you.”_ _

__Taeyong stares at him, his lips pursed, “You-”_ _

__“Taeyong.”_ _

__Johnny’s voice snaps them out of the impending showdown. Taeil brings a hand up to his heart, wills it to beat a little slower, something slightly more akin to normal._ _

__“Don’t be mean to Taeil,” Johnny starts, and Taeil watches Taeyong’s eyes go black, he huffs, exasperated, “why do you _always-_ ” _ _

__“Enough.” Johnny’s voice is firm, like an anchor that Taeil can hold onto. He clutches at it, steady and steadfast._ _

__Johnny holds out a hand, to Taeyong of course, precious little thing he is, “Let’s go to lunch, we’re late.”_ _

__And Taeyong is like some flighty, injured fawn, hesitant and unwilling and yet wanting to escape all at once. His only option _is_ Johnny. He doesn’t like that, never wanted that. _ _

__And yet..._ _

__Taeil smirks._ _

__Let Johnny handle it._ _

__He’ll just keep ignoring that throbbing in the back of his mind._ _

__It’s worked thus far._ _

__

__“Why do you let him get to you?” Jungwoo asks Taeil over lunch -- they’re both management, hell, Taeil is a _director_ , but the big bonuses typically stay with Sales and Marketing, meaning irresponsible fucks like Jaehyun’s pockets get fatter, while the rest of them look for ‘2 for 1’ sushi roll deals. _ _

“I don’t -- he’s just so fucking _annoying_.” Taeil settles for that, it’s more or less his general feeling on the matter, “and you know, I can’t go to Human Resources because Doyoung’s fucking _horrible_ at HR.” 

Jungwoo shrugs, it puts Taeil on edge. “He turned Mark in…” he says like it _means_ anything. 

“It’s not like he wanted to though…” 

"Well yeah, exactly, and Doyoung liked Mark, he knew it would be damaging for him and he still-” 

Taeil snorts, “oh yeah, cause Mark getting caught fucking one of the richest men in Hong Kong, and, by proxy, the fucking _world_ was real life-shattering for him -- he was _so embarrassed_ that people found out Lucas was desperate to shove his filthy rich, allegedly huge, Jumbotron dick up his ass,” Taeil huffs, “Taeyong taught him oh so well...” he finishes with a roll of his eyes. 

__Jungwoo plays with his pickled ginger._ _

__“I’m just saying...Doyoung can be impartial when he needs to be.”_ _

And because Taeil doesn’t agree, _can’t_ , he doesn’t say anything more. There’s a huge difference between making a decision because you _have_ to, because that was the plan _all along_ , versus making a decision because you _needed_ to, because it was intrinsically the _right_ decision to make. 

__“Maybe I’ve just been burned too many times by Mark and Taeyong.”_ _

Jungwoo cocks his head to the side, uses his straw to fiddle with the ice in his cup. “What did _Mark_ do?” 

And Taeil is conscious of the way Jungwoo says it, like precious little Mark couldn’t have _possibly_ done anything to warrant anyone disliking him. 

__“I just -- I don't like how he treated people…” is what he lands on. Nice and generic._ _

__Jungwoo shrugs again, “he seemed nice enough, but, I didn’t get to interact with him as much as you did...”_ _

__Taeil takes a sip of his coke, “honestly, he was a pretentious asshole; he pretends to be super nice, but he’s just as full of himself as Taeyong is; you can be good, but you absolutely can’t be better than him. It was annoying watching him preside over the other interns like they should be grateful just to be in his presence...who the fuck does he think he is?”_ _

Jungwoo shoots him a look. “Yeah, but that’s how they treated him, not his fault...remember how Jaemin used to be…and oh my god, _Haechan_ \-- he was obsessed with Mark.” 

Taeil feels himself bristle. “No, he wasn’t. He wanted people to see he was _just as good_ as Mark and-” 

__“But he wasn’t though.”_ _

__Taeil pauses. He needs to regroup. He feels cracks in the armor._ _

“He _was_ just as-” 

__“He wasn’t. He was good at some of the technical components sure, but he was far from being as good as Mark...”_ _

Taeil bristles again. Jungwoo is going straight for the jugular and Taeil’s not used to this. Didn’t sign up for this. Had specifically asked Jungwoo to lunch for the purpose of getting time to rant with someone who should be wholly on _his_ side. 

__And what was so good about Mark in the first place? Cause he got Lucas’ dick hard? Cause he reminded Johnny of Taeyong? Please. Any one under 5’8 gets a second look from Lucas and Johnny is literally mentally imbalanced per Taeil’s own armchair diagnosis; attraction to Taeyong -- after knowing him for a minimum of five minutes -- was proof of that; his fledgling obsession with Mark was just the icing on top of the spectrums cake._ _

__Thought’s Taeil keeps to himself yet again._ _

__“I’m not going to argue with you about this.”_ _

__Jungwoo shrugs, “I didn’t intend to argue. Just saying, Haechan’s reactions to Mark were a little extreme --- I _personally_ think it was this combination of his own arrogance and jealousy -- he always wanted the things Mark had -- maybe he liked Mark?” _ _

__“Well, we’ll just have to agree to disagree; Haechan just wanted people to see him outside the shadow of Mark.”_ _

__Jungwoo stands up, throws some cash on the table. Claims he’ll be late for his 1:00pm if he doesn’t leave right this instant._ _

__“Weird how he always chose to stand in it though, don’t you think?”_ _

__And Taeil doesn’t like what that implies, so he ignores it._ _

__Another memory he’ll push to the back of his mind._ _

__

__Forgiveness is a fickle thing. Per all of Taeil’s Google, Naver and Daum searches it’s supposed to be something that you do, for _you_. It’s something that can take time, and, in some rare cases, never happen. _ _

__It’s spiritual more than it is practical._ _

__Taeil doesn’t believe in the notion based on that alone._ _

Forgiveness, in his view, can never truly be about _you_ if it involves another, can never truly be _for you_ if it _needs_ to occur and yet, in some instances, _never_ occurs. The people who say ‘I’ve moved on’ were often, in his opinion anyway, never _that_ hurt in the first place -- making themselves victims because it suited them to do so. 

Everyone claims not to want _pity_ but the attention is where the addictions thrive. 

__Mentally it’s hard to move on if you’re being forced to acknowledge the problem._ _

__Taeil would say it’s wholly impossible._ _

__It’s not solely a reflection of who he is, as an individual either._ _

Taeil doesn’t believe the pretty flowing words of reconciliation or forgiveness. They can’t -- _don’t_ exist in his mind. 

__There can only be bitter hate until the bitter end._ _

__He wonders where that leaves Johnny._ _

__He wonders where it leaves Mark._ _

And sometimes, Taeil thinks, he’s a bit hard on Mark, and then he thinks back on how Mark _made him feel_ and those weak, spineless thoughts disappear. 

Sure, Taeil latched onto victimhood, but not in some shallow, attention seeking manner. He wasn’t hurt _just_ because he’d been hurt. It was deeper than that. More mental than that. 

And he doesn’t _like_ to talk about it, because he doesn’t like to think about it, and he likes to think about it before he talks about it, lest everything come out all wrong. 

It’s complicated; and so when he reads the words _‘can you find it in your heart to forgive?_ Taeil’s gut reaction is ‘no.’ Didn’t see why he should -- how he could. 

And he’d gone ahead and read the pseudo babble about how forgiveness would ‘release him’ -- skimmed the razzle dazzle about a weight being lifted off his shoulders. Oddly, Taeil doesn’t like the sound of that. Feels he _needs_ something to keep him grounded in the present, grounded in the moment. 

The weight of Johnny’s sin made him feel _alive_ in some ways, _worthy_ ; as if he'd had a purpose. 

He wouldn’t forgive him, because that would mean letting go. Taeil didn’t want to let go -- he wanted to keep it, _that_ , whatever it was. 

__He was a bit of a romantic in that way._ _


	15. Doyoung: The Great Pretender

Doyoung had never been _popular_. 

He wasn’t one of those kids in school that everyone knew or even _wanted_ to know. He’d been a wallflower then. Still was in a lot of ways. 

He’s not one of those people who remembers High School fondly -- had been desperate to be done with the whole thing while he was there -- couldn’t imagine thinking too long or too hard on it now; had ignored and deleted every invitation he’d gotten for any high school ‘reunion’ as soon as it reached his inbox. Had intentionally fallen _out_ of contact with anyone who might be able to speak to the _him_ , of _then_. 

And sure, he _could_ go to a reunion; brag about his cushy job at Muse:Seoul, show off his hot _partner_ and let Jaehyun wow them with tales of multi-million dollar deals he had closed and accounts he managed, celebs and diplomats he’d shaken hands with, the completely exorbitant cost of a G7 flight to Paris and the party scene at Cannes, and how _he, Doyoung,_ of all people, had gotten to tag along as a plus one because it was _his_ partner and he’d scheduled Every. Single. Bit. of those trips. 

So yes, he could go to a reunion and wow the proverbial pants off anyone who he might’ve made acquaintance with back then; surely, he _could_ , but Doyoung doesn’t think any of them _deserve_ that level of insight into his life. Most importantly, he doesn’t _want_ to share those things with them. 

And because he _wasn’t_ one of those people glamorizing and idealizing or looking back with rose colored glasses at his life when he was _16_ , and because he decidedly _wasn’t_ high on the drug of nostalgia for his youth, he wasn’t eager to divulge, and most importantly, didn’t think they’d _care_. They hadn’t liked him then, and they wouldn’t like him now. Being envious of his new status wasn’t an invitation to genuine friendship. Doyoung didn’t need more invites to parties he couldn’t be bothered to attend; what he needed was for his life right now to not be a study in total fucking chaos. 

And he’s _still_ unpopular. 

“Aren’t you tired of doing all of Jaehyun’s work for him?” Taeyong’s voice snaps Doyoung out of his ‘reunion rant’ and into the present. He doesn’t like it here very much, but he’s got nowhere else to go. 

He huffs, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not doing his work for him, I'm just _assisting_ him, is all -- besides, it’s not like he’s got any support; what, _Haechan_ is going to help him?” 

Taeyong snorts and falls onto the chaise in Doyoung’s office in dramatic fashion, the theatrical ruffled sleeves of his shirt fluttering on the descent down. “I’ve seen the revised logistics; doesn’t seem like Jaehyun’s work at all, he didn’t even know Incheon was coded as ICN and you’re expecting me to believe he coordinated arrival into the executive airport, booked a car, made reservations at the hotel _and_ created a menu of ‘Seoul’s Top 10 Attractions’?” He glances over at Doyoung pointedly, “I’d sooner believe I’m going to heaven.” 

Doyoung rolls his eyes at that. They both know Taeyong doesn’t _truly_ think so terribly of himself; there is no one who believes in Taeyong’s saint-hood more than Taeyong. 

“I just organized everything for him onto a document, he already had everything done, trust me” Doyoung chews on his bottom lip as he says it -- a dead giveaway that he’s lying, he _knows_ , but it’s a habit he’s struggled with breaking. 

“The dick is really _that_ good huh?” 

“Taeyong.” 

Though, if Doyoung was going to answer, he’d say yes, it really was that good. 

“What? I’m just _asking_ \-- I can’t _ask_? I thought we were friends, friends ask each other weird shit all the time.” 

And Doyoung smiles at that, because no matter how pathetic it makes him seem, Taeyong’s friendship is all he’s ever wanted. Something he’s always prided himself on being _worthy_ of. 

“Yeah, but it’s weird -- we’re in the office.” 

And Taeyong rolls his eyes at that -- it sets Doyoung slightly on edge. And he _knows_ what Taeyong’s thinking, what Taeyong _wants_ to say. Doyoung is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. Doyoung knows; he _knows_. 

It doesn’t change how he _feels_.

“Stop doing that lazy assholes work, you’re partners, it’s supposed to be a partnership” 

Doyoung fiddles around with his desk supplies, tries not to think too much, too hard on the discussion at hand. “I’m just supporting him on this one thing.” And if he says it, he believes it, if he believes it, it's _true._

“It’s always one thing until it’s his whole fucking job...whatever... Jaehyun’s hot as fuck at least.” 

And Doyoung exhales in one long, drawn out motion. 

_Exactly._

Doyoung didn’t have the clout -- that’s what the youths were calling it these days -- to be arguing with Jaehyun, _questioning_ Jaehyun; to do more than just be _grateful_ to have him. And Doyoung knows it’s _silly_ to think this way, but it’s the _truth_. And he can’t talk to Taeyong about these things in an open and honest manner because Taeyong didn’t _have_ these same truths, these same worries to live with; would never understand them -- the worries -- would never understand _him_ , in relation to the worries. 

But Doyoung can’t _say_ any of that, would feel stupid if he did. Instead he smiles, closed lipped, and rests his chin on top of a bony, balled fist, “he is, isn’t he.” 

If there’s a habit that never in a million years he thought he’d pick up, smoking was that habit. He doesn’t know _why_ he smokes, he doesn’t feel particularly better having smoked and yet he keeps… _smoking._

He blames Taeyong. The way he lights up so easily, an expensive Nat Sherman dangling from his full lips. He always looks so serene, smoke wafting out like art into the air. Doyoung has always wanted to capture that essence. 

Mark didn’t smoke, and Doyoung thought that suited him. Couldn’t imagine Mark, after a tiring day, taking reprieve in that type of vice. Most importantly, he didn’t judge the rest of them for smoking; Doyoung liked that; appreciated it. 

Doyoung wants to talk about Mark, but he knows that’ll just get Taeyong all upset, knows that Taeyong won’t want to hear about Mark from _him_. And Doyoung gets that, truly he does, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel like absolute shit about it. 

And he _should_ do it anyway; talk about Mark, ask about him. And he’s completely aware that he's being selfish, fishing for forgiveness at a time like this, forgiveness he knows Taeyong can’t give to him, but the childish, immature part of him liked to argue that he hadn’t had a real _choice_ in the matter. 

And, he could, theoretically, in an ideal world, go to Taeyong with that _excuse_. Offer it up on a silver platter and let at least _that sin_ be washed away. 

He knows it won’t matter; the rains won’t come. Just because he hadn’t _wanted_ to do it, didn’t mean he hadn’t been _wrong_. 

Doyoung gets that now. Understands it; is grateful that Taeyong is willing to give him -- _them_ \-- another try. Doyoung will take snark, and snaps, and a cold, bitter tone belying beautiful, cheerful words so long as Taeyong still loves him, still _wants_ him. 

“You speak to Mark lately?” Doyoung starts off simply. He _knows_ Taeyong has. And it disgusts him, how easily he falls into such bad behavior, such bad habits. Lying and manipulating. Manipulating and lying. 

Taeyong nods, it’s slow and purposeful. Doyoung wonders what he’s thinking. 

Of all the things Doyoung has ever wanted to know, this for him, is it. If he could just read Taeyong’s mind, understand him, life would be simpler, life would be _better_. 

“How is he?” He presses on. He’d expected to have to do the work; even in conversation, Taeyong holds onto Mark as if he’s fragile and precious. 

“He’s good. He’s -- he’s fine.” Taeyong manages to get out, eyes watery from the wind whipping strands of silken pink into his face. 

“How’s he liking Hong Kong?” 

“Well,” Taeyong takes another long drag, “Mark loves to eat,” and Doyoung chuckles a little at that. He’ll take it, this meaningless tidbit of information that doesn’t really answer any of Doyoung’s questions, he knows even this is a lot for Taeyong, maybe even too much. And, if Doyoung’s being perfectly honest, which he doesn’t find particularly difficult, unlike everyone else as Muse:Seoul, he feels _weird_ listening to Taeyong divulge information, no matter how asinine, about Mark. 

Doyoung ignores that it was he who had been eager to speak on him in the first place. 

He wonders how much of that is down to buyer’s remorse? 

And Doyoung isn't _proud_ about it, loathes to say it, to think it, but it’s true. The reality is, despite all of Doyoung’s heartfelt repentance and ‘coming to Jesus’ moments, there had been a time where he’d been _jealous_ of Mark. Scared that Taeyong would throw him away; ignorant to the fact that you could have more than one real friend. It’s a concept that had been wholly foreign to him, considering he’d been sorely lacking in ‘friends’ in the past. 

And that’s scary to Doyoung, that people have that much love to give. That people could care so much. 

But Taeyong had been so possessive of Mark, it unnerved him, made him feel incomplete. 

_“I don’t want to fuck him, I want to keep him,”_ Taeyong had said before, like Mark was some sort of exotic pet. And maybe he was; maybe that’s how the beautiful, desirable people saw themselves. Maybe that’s how they looked out for one another -- with an obsessive possessiveness that bordered on deranged. 

And Doyoung had been so very jealous of that. The only thing keeping him sane, was that Taeyong still seemed to _hate_ everyone else. And Doyoung decided he could deal with Mark, if Mark didn’t take this one thing from him -- the only thing he had. 

And Doyoung wants to scoff a little at that, because Taeyong always saw Mark as the only thing _he_ had. 

It intimidated Doyoung, the fearful, insecure, _desperate_ parts of Taeyong that he’d been unfamiliar with, and so, had instantly distrusted. He hadn’t known what to do with a Taeyong that wasn’t standing tall and strong; a Taeyong that was _weak_. 

Except, Taeyong _hadn’t_ been weak. It had been Doyoung all along; too weak to see he’d stepped into a trap, a _game_. There would be no winning here for him, only the bitter sting of loss. A permanent ‘L’ sketched onto the scorecard of his life. 

_This_ is why he’s unpopular. 

Redemption is a word that gets thrown about often, too often for Doyoung to take it seriously. He doesn’t think you can ever truly be redeemed. Good deeds don’t erase the bad. Trust that is broken, can be pieced together but can never truly be whole again. And sure, you’ll have it, trust, but it will be fragmented and scared, bruised and battered, transformed, redefined -- there, but _never_ the same. 

Nothing is as good as your first high. 

“Can I come in?” Jungwoo’s head peaks around the frame of Doyoung’s office door, and Doyoung motions him inside. 

Jungwoo gives him hope. 

“How’s it going?” Jungwoo is always cheery, happy, and perky. Doyoung is always a little jealous, always very much in awe. 

“Doing what I can; eager to get this PBW meeting over with and out of the way, it’s stressing everyone out.” 

“Jaehyun said you helped him out a lot, that’s so nice of you, I know you’re super busy too.” And Doyoung is _shy_ so he simply nods, noncommittal and unwilling. “It’s been… _slow_ around here..I had some free time.” 

Jungwoo nods, leans against the wall, arms folded over his chest. “Taeyong’s been out of the office a lot, that always helps,” 

Doyoung chuckles at that. It’s _true_. 

“...but I did hear from Taeil they got into a bit of a...well, you know how they usually do.” 

Doyoung rolls his eyes, wills the headache to stay away. “So Taeil pretended to be a big man before running away...leaving Taeyong huffing and puffing...probably why he was smoking earlier.” 

“Eh, doesn’t seem like he needs a real _reason_ to smoke, but, wouldn’t be surprised if he was out there a bit longer cause of that.” 

“Taeil say what they…” Doyoung twirls his wrist in dramatic fashion “... _argued_ about?” 

Jungwoo’s eyes roll towards the ceiling. “No, just said Taeyong was being annoying; I’m also going to make an educated guess that Taeil’s not exactly… _excited_ to see Mark coming for the MOU meeting either.” 

Doyoung nods, “Figures. Honestly though, Johnny should move Taeil’s management under me; I don’t know why he’s…” and Doyoung lets that sit there; he _knows_ why, doesn’t want to think about it, has purposely not been. Another crime he’s an accomplice to.

He quirks his head slightly to the left, “Mark coming is supposed to be on the hush by the way, who told you?” 

“Oh, Jaehyun was blabbering…” Jungwoo’s lips slope upward, a small smile sitting on his face. 

“Oh...well, just...keep it hush Ok.”

“Will do boss,” Jungwoo throws him a salute before he saunters out. 

Doyoung cradles his face in his hands. 

Doyoung can do a lot -- has done a lot -- he can’t do this.


	16. Jaemin: Cash Transactions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some brief mentions of drugs here. I've added tags for those who might find that triggering. 
> 
> The chapter is allegedly about Jaemin...

Jaemin is a survivor. 

Jaemin is drunk as fuck and high as hell.

It’s not an ideal combination, but it’s the combination he is; he’s not _proud_ of it per se, though, in the spirit of honesty, he’d come to this party with the aim of getting completely and totally _fucked-up_. In fact, he’s a little bummed he’s _not_ blacked-out just yet. He’ll attribute this bout of minimal alertness to his shoddy self-preservation instincts remembering to kick-in. Mark’s all the way in _Hong-fucking-Kong,_ meaning that if Jaemin _does_ black out, there won’t be anyone to pick him up and drag him back home, or at least to a place where the floor isn’t sticky and the police aren’t in danger of raiding. 

Jaemin _wants_ to black out. Not for any particular reason, but he wants to, and Jaemin likes doing whatever the fuck he wants. It’s kind of his mantra, kind of his motto. And he can _barely_ move, but he’s going to force himself up and to the bar; is going to order another drink...or two. He’s thinking a shot of tequila to take the edge off, and a Singapore Sunrise to hold him over for the cab ride home. If he makes it to a cab, that is -- if he can remember his address once he’s inside. 

Jaemin runs a hand through his hair, watches the glitter come dancing out; the shimmery specs decorate his jeans and suddenly he’s not sure why he doesn’t own a pair of sequin pants. Can’t believe he’s never noticed how incomplete his wardrobe is without them. 

“You’re done.” -- and he’s thinking that’s Jeno but it could just as easily be Haechan. He doesn’t really care, he needs that Singapore Sunrise though. 

“What do you think about getting me some ‘quila and a Singapore?” 

“Seriously?” Definitely Jeno. Always so fucking _responsible._

“Yeah, seriously.” Jaemin will get it himself if he has to, but he’s lazy; would prefer not to work that hard. 

“How are you getting home?” Jeno asks as he sits Jaemin upright from his face down position on a dirty couch in the far corner of the room. It smells like weed and piss. 

“Are you going to get me my drinks or…” because honestly, Jaemin doesn’t really care how he gets home, doesn’t really care if he _makes_ it home. Would actually find it kind of lame if he _did_ wake up in his own place -- that’s too safe, too secure. 

Jeno gives him a look, but heads to the bar anyway; Jaemin will thank him in the morning, when he can actually be bothered with pretending like he’s some semblance of a decent person. And Jaemin knows he’s treating Jeno like shit, but he can’t help himself. It’s a defense mechanism and _how he feels_ all at once.

“Do you even know where the fuck we _are?_ ” 

Haechan. That’s _definitely_ Haechan. 

Jaemin sneers, throws the best glare he can at the direction to which he _thinks_ Haechan is standing. He’s honestly not sure; there are like...five Haechan’s right now, and Jaemin is really fucking drunk, and he’s also high. Simultaneously, he’s not drunk or high _enough_. 

“We’re… _fuck_ , whose fucking… _fuck_.” And it’s _terrible_ that he can’t remember where he is, and that’s a true testament to the fact that he’s probably had too much to drink, but he grabs out for the shot of tequila and the Sunrise when Jeno comes back, swallows them down like a man dying of thirst. He’s not succumbed to alcohol poisoning just yet, which basically means he’s fine. 

And this would be embarrassing on anyone else, but Jaemin is the definition of cool. The kids look up to him. 

“You wanna speedball or no?” And _God_ , Haechan knows him so fucking well. He hears Jeno huff, _disappointment_ clear in the sound. It hurts Jaemin’s feelings. He wants to be good, but he is who he is. 

“Don’t.” Jeno’s voice is firm and gruff, and Jaemin’s sure Haechan is probably confused, probably thinks ‘don’t’ is some _type_ of speed-ball -- laced with fent and coated with Xanax. And that’s.. _.tempting_ , but Jaemin will decline; he’ll probably _need_ to bum a ride with Jeno, and he’d prefer it if Jeno _wanted_ to take him home, rather than begrudgingly shoving Jaemin into his G-Wagon and then ignoring him the whole time, mad that Jaemin failed to be, at the very least, any of the lesser versions of responsible. Failed to be what he _wanted_ him to be. 

And really, Jaemin wants to shout at him, “you’re the one who likes _me!_ ” Though he knows that’s mean, knows it’s unfair. 

He’s drunk enough to do it anyway. Hopes it doesn’t come to that. 

Jaemin _wants_ to like Jeno back, and on paper, he should. Jeno’s a trust-funder, he could pay Jaemin’s bills for him, he likes to travel, loves hanging out, going to parties and eating expensive food -- he’s _fashionable_. On the flip-side, he’s also really fucking _beige_. He’s _responsible_. Which, sure, _long-term_ Jaemin guesses is a good thing, but in the here and now? Well, he’s not so sure. 

He probably shouldn’t think too hard on it anyways. It’s not like Jeno wants to _marry_ him or anything; Jaemin doesn’t know why the thought of being serious with Jeno is such a turn-off, but it _is_. He wants that to change, though it doesn’t seem likely it will. But Jaemin isn’t stupid either, the shelf-life of the prettyboy, partyboy is embarrassingly short. He’ll need Jeno, or someone like him, in the end. 

And that goes against all his principals; Jaemin hates _needing_ people. Prefers to use them instead. And he doesn’t _love_ Jeno, barely even _likes_ him, in the romantic sense, but it feels wrong to _use_ him either way. And because Jaemin doesn’t like how mature and well-thought out that sounds, he wills it away. Shakes the shot glass at Haechan to signal they should do one more round -- ignores the burn of Jeno’s _disappointment_ on his back. 

“I’m sorry, about Friday night.” 

“It’s no biggie, you were drunk, people get drunk…” 

“But you don’t like it…” 

Jeno smiles, closed lip and awkward, “I think, you’re better than that.” 

Jaemin can’t respond to that appropriately and so he won’t. Simply takes a bite of his avocado toast and nods. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what fairy-tale Jeno sees in him, can’t think of any remotely good deed he’s done in his presence. It’s unsettling, how Jeno puts all this stock in him _‘just because_ ’. Jaemin doesn’t like the sound of that, the implications of it either. 

“...you just get, so caught up in the moment though, it’s fun to watch you,” Jeno bobbles his head, “go crazy,” he finishes with a laugh. 

Jaemin smiles, tries to swallow down the embarrassment. It burns in his throat. He guesses it’s supposed to be endearing, but really, it comes across just a tad bit condescending. He’s not a _child_ , he doesn’t need to be looked after. He’s not in his _rebellious_ stage -- this is Jaemin. 

He doesn’t want to spoil the mood. Says something else entirely.

“Yeah, but you’d like it, if I didn’t go so hard…” and he knows he says it a little too aggressively to come across as anything other than defensive, as accusatory, but Jeno is sweet and patient, he takes it, nodding softly as the breeze flutters his hair. 

“Like I said, I think you’re better than that.” 

Jaemin scoffs, “ I’m not.” 

Jeno doesn’t respond, simply grabs another fry, chews it slowly, before finally “how’s work anyway?” 

Jaemin tries not to throw back his Queen Elizabeth too hastily, settles for one big gulp, before he takes a breath. 

“Shit.” 

Eloquent as ever. 

Jeno laughs, a knowing gleam in his eye. “You working the Gala?” 

Jaemin nods, “yeah, front door; they call it a _greeter_ ,” he jokes, brows rising comically into his fringe, “You’ll be there?” 

Jeno nods, “My Dad, he’s forcing me to attend -- thinks the exposure is good for me.” 

And Jaemin let’s the silence blanket them. He always feels so _domestic_ with Jeno; _too_ domestic even. All this talk of work and family; Jaemin wishes it would just end. Can’t they talk about something fun, like sex. He likes sex. Loves it even. Wonders if Jeno: The Pure, is a virgin or not. 

Probably. Maybe. Probably not. 

“Anyways,” Jeno starts up again, “...so, my family, we were supposed to all go to Crete this year, had the boat rented and everything...Dad’s going to Shanghai the same week, but said I was free to go still...and you don’t have to say yes, but...if you weren’t doing anything...if you weren’t too busy or anything,” Jeno doesn’t finish the thought, never _formally_ asks, but the invitation is there. 

Holy fucking hell. 

Jaemin doesn’t even know how they’ve gotten to this point. He can’t think of a single _real_ date he and Jeno have gone on. 

And suddenly he’s so fucking _angry_. 

He hates this _pressure_. That rich assholes think they can just throw their fucking cash around and that’s it. _That’s_ the relationship. And godfuckingdamnit, this was _exactly_ what he hadn’t wanted to deal with on his Sunday Fun-day. 

“Yea, sure…I’m down.” is what he lands on, because he’s _broke_ and a week with Jeno, on his fucking _yacht_ in Crete, was money Jaemin could save. And that’s _wrong_ , but Jaemin doesn’t care. If Jeno wants a little trophy boyfriend to haul around Greece, Jaemin can be that for him. 

Jaemin is a survivor. He survives. 

“Do you even _like_ him,” is the first thing Haechan says on Monday when they meet up in the break-room to hover around the coffee machine. And really, they should get a Breville for the days they have to slum it because there was no time to hit up Felt; Jaemin hates everything about the Mr. Coffee machine and the fact that there isn’t a grinder attachment so he’s forced to use shitty, pre-ground beans. 

Jaemin shrugs. “I need some bills paid, and once he gets tired of _that_ …”

Haechan simply stares. 

“Listen, you can’t say _anything_ though...his dad is _technically_ a client of ours…” 

“Why would I say anything?” 

_Seriously?_

Jaemin shoots him the dirtiest look he can muster; Haechan rolls his eyes. 

“Mark would be so proud of you, fucking your way to the top…” Haechan snorts out, and Jaemin freezes, squeezes his mug a little harder. He doesn’t agree with that; Mark hadn’t _intended_ to fuck his way to the top, he’d merely fucked and _ended up_ there. 

“Joking aside, I didn’t know you guys were so serious...” Haechan pours creamer in his coffee, and Jaemin hates to be _that_ guy, but he’s sure Haechan’s coffee pretty much counts as coffee flavored milk now. 

“We’re not...we’ve not even fooled around or anything…” Jaemin takes a sip...the coffee is Illy brand, so it’s not _horrid_ , but they could definitely afford to do better, he’s thinking organic, fair trade and sustainably sourced from Burundi, “he’s probably hoping on this trip…” 

Haechan nods but frowns, “he seems nice though, seems like he likes you...that’s always a good start.” 

Jaemin sighs, “well yeah, but it’s weird to go from hanging out at parties to, ‘let’s go to Crete for the week’.” 

“Better than getting fucked in the employee only stairwell on your first date…” 

Jaemin cringes… Haechan’s being totally unfair with bringing that up, makes him feel obligated to defend Mark, who isn’t there to defend himself. 

“Well, you would’ve too…” is what he says instead, because he doesn’t _want_ to argue. Jaemin is a lot of things, confrontational isn’t one of them. And he knows Haechan, he _would’ve_ if he’d been given the option to. 

Haechan raises a brow, takes a quick sip, “maybe, I don’t know...I like to think I’m a little more dignified than that. I mean -- a stairwell? Really?” 

And _fuck_ Haechan for that. What was Mark supposed to _do_ in that situation? And maybe Jaemin makes a face, because Haechan is quick to follow-up. 

“What? It’s not like it was fuck or _die_.” 

Jaemin isn’t confrontational. 

“You ever fuck in a stairwell?” 

“What the fuck?” 

“I’m just asking…”

“What do you want?” 

“An answer to my question?” 

“So you want Ten to teach you how to be an eleven in bed.” 

“Or, I want Ten to tell me if he’s ever gotten dicked down in a stairwell…” 

“So, it’s gonna sound like I’m hanging up…” 

The line goes dead. 

Jaemin spends the rest of the day upset at nothing and everything all at once. He’s upset with Haechan, angry at Jeno, angry at _himself_. And he knows he’s already agreed to go, has absolutely no intentions of pulling out, and still, he’s so… _upset_ , about the whole thing -- he’s upset that he’s upset and it makes him want to pull his perfectly conditioned hair out. 

Jaemin isn’t dumb despite what people might think. He’d graduated salutatorian of his High School class, had graduated from Seoul National University, Summa Cum Laude -- the only person who had performed better in his course had been _Mark_ and there was nothing Jaemin could do about that. Jaemin was good, which was great, but Mark had been better. Jaemin had been _fine_ with that. 

He’s digressing… 

As he was saying, he’s not dumb. He knows Jeno will want sex at the end of this trip. And that’s fine, Jaemin can do that for him; he’s not green to the whole concept -- is in-fact, very practiced at the whole song and dance. So no, it’s not the sex that’s bothering him, it’s the assumptions, because just like Lucas had done to Mark, Jeno will assume it’s a relationship just because he’s thrown money at him. 

Jaemin isn’t a prostitute. 

And he has no problem with that line of work; has been hungry enough to know that a dollar is a dollar, whether you’re standing on your feet or laying or on your back -- would never bemoan honest work -- still, he hates being treated like some pay-for-play type whore. 

And he wonders if this is how Mark felt, when Lucas threw money at him and then barked at him to take his clothes off, to fuck him in a stairwell because he wanted to prove to Mark that he could _make_ him do that. That his money gave him the power too. It makes Jaemin shudder. 

And he hadn’t _seen_ it himself, had only heard about it from Haechan who had sworn him to secrecy, which ended up being total bullshit because it seemed _everyone_ knew by the time Monday had rolled around. And Jaemin _knows_ he sounds like a Mark fanboy whenever Mark comes up, but that’s because he _is_ , and he’d been so _proud_ of Mark when he’d walked through the halls, head held high. 

And really, since _when_ was fucking rich men a _bad_ thing in their industry. The fact that people were crucifying Mark for that, had always left a bad taste in his mouth. But Jaemin didn’t have answers for _how or why_ it happened, and so he kept quiet. Watched as Taeyong tried, and failed to protect him from what seemed like a punishment _far_ beyond the crime. And Jaemin knows, in the back of his mind, there is more to it than that. There are parts of the story he’s missing, things he doesn’t know -- will likely _never_ know, and that makes him...frustrated. He feels left out, and he _hates_ feeling left out. 

Because if Jaemin was analyzing the situation, and he means, really analyzing it, then sure, Mark was _interested_ in Lucas like all poor pretty boys are interested in rich men, but that didn’t mean he was going to drop his pants and bend over for him _anywhere_. The whole story, hell, the whole scenario hadn’t made sense to him, and he’d never gotten a source for the rumor. Haechan had said he’d _heard_ , Ten had said he’d _heard_ \-- no one would say from _who_. 

He’s too sober to think on it.


	17. Jungwoo: Under God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jungwoo is the sweetest...

Haechan describes the dream like this: 

He feeds Mark a poison apple, watches the ruby red ball of good fortune roll across a marble floor as Mark tumbles to the ground. His eyes are wide and glassy, lips parted, speaking silent words that Haechan can’t quite make out. It doesn’t matter anyhow. Mark is dying. Soon, he’ll be dead. 

It’s the best dream Haechan’s had in years. It’s the best sleep Haechan’s had in years. 

Jungwoo understands. 

Jungwoo is 17 the first time he has sex. It happens at a college party the summer before his freshman year on an unmade bed near soiled boxers and a sock stiffer then cardboard. He’s drunk enough not to care. 

He doesn’t remember the sex in of itself, which is par the course for drunken intercourse at 17, but he remembers how it made him feel, not necessarily empowered, but a bit beyond the nameless, faceless boy he’d been before. He’d felt wanted, _desired_ , and sure, it wasn’t saying much -- he realizes, that back then, being proverbial fresh-meat caused a spike in his stock -- but still, for that brief moment, when seniors and even grad students had sought to impress him with off-campus apartments and _cars_ , he’d felt like somebody. A ways away from the nobody he was back home in Jeju. 

In the end it’s not enough. 

He overcompensates; is as promiscuous and irresponsible as one can be while trying to maintain a 3.5 GPA. And he imagines anywhere else, he’d be the center of attention, _the focus_ ; it just so happens, that here, he _isn’t_. Seoul is full of beautiful, talented people. He’s just one of _many_. Jungwoo doesn’t know why that _bothers_ him so much, considering he’d never been the standout back home either. But it does.

And he guesses it’s because this was supposed to be new beginnings -- a new chapter. A chance for him to reinvent himself using as much or as little of the color-wheel he so desired. And he’d always been confident in the strokes he decided to make, had always been happy with his finished product, that is, until he saw the works of art everyone else had been painting. And then suddenly, his work looks a little sloppy, a little _juvenile_ in comparison. 

He hates himself. 

As punishment for being _less than_ , he abuses his body in a whirlwind of drugs, alcohol and unsafe sex. Fucks a member of the basketball team, and his seat-mate from freshman composition. Gets high on weed and coke, almost dies of alcohol poisoning at a rager hosted by a fraternity, turns around and does it again the very next weekend. Gives head to his Chemistry TA and fucks his RA while skipping English I; fucks his roommate, Minho’s french tutor, Kihoon, just two weeks after they start dating; watches Minho kiss Kihoon the morning after they fucked, kiss the lips that had expertly sucked Jungwoo’s dick only a few hours earlier. 

And maybe Jungwoo is a bad person. Maybe he’s a terrible friend, but it doesn’t really mean anything in the grand scheme of things, and so Jungwoo doesn’t really care.

Jungwoo air dries on the couch while watching MTV Asia, lets the technicolor bullshit of this week's newest k-pop group drown out the sting he feels at watching Jaehyun get dressed to go home. And he doesn’t know _why_ he’s so upset, or even, _who_ he’s so upset at, but he knows he’s angry. 

It’s not even that he wants Jaehyun to _stay_ , so much as he just doesn’t want him to _go_. And he doesn’t know what that means, would rather not think too hard on it, because instinctively, he knows it can’t be good. 

He’ll be damned if he gives Ten any leverage for his bullshit. 

And when he gets like this, irrationally needy and _weak_ , he knows it’s better to keep his distance. He’d rather swallow his pride and keep the peace than blow-up in Jaehyun’s face. It won’t help anything, won’t _solve_ anything either. 

That doesn’t lessen the urge. 

“So, what are you doing for your anniversary?” because Jungwoo _likes_ being an ass. Jaehyun rolls his eyes, towels his hair and reaches for the remote, changes to some finance oriented channel that requires attention far beyond what Jungwoo is prepared to give. 

“Vacation.” is Jaehyun’s short answer. Jungwoo resists the pressing need to roll his eyes. _Predictable._ Jaehyun throwing money and fancy trips at Doyoung like he was some silly little sugar baby at Seoul National instead of giving him affection and attention beyond sex. 

It makes Jungwoo disgustingly happy. 

“True Love.” is his sassy reply, and he crosses and uncrosses his legs for good measure, a little ‘Basic Instinct’ to really get Jaehyun going. 

And it works. Of course it works.

And as reward for being the selfish piece of shit he knows he is, Jaehyun gives him the long, rough fucking he’s been wanting since Jaehyun walked through the door a few hours earlier. 

Jungwoo lets the feeling of being boneless and blissed out overtake him. Clamps down on it, revels in it, works at it. Takes pride in the absolute lack of self-restraint Jaehyun shows him, the multitude of curses that flow from his lips and the desperate grab of rough hands on Jungwoo’s hips. 

Secretly, in some perverted, padlocked recess of his mind, Jungwoo wonders how Doyoung fucks. Does he just lay there? Does he push back; does he _ride_ Jaehyun? Jungwoo would love to know -- _needs_ to know -- understands it’s a weird thing to even think about, but he can’t change who he is. 

He imagines the sex is rough and gritty, lacking anything tender and soft -- just how Jungwoo likes it. 

And he shouldn’t. 

Should have more self-respect, more dignity than that, but he doesn’t. Had never cared about any of that stuff in the first place. Life was too short to spend it worrying about minor things like marriage and decency. Jungwoo finds comfort in the more primal urges. Pities the fact that all the hardest dicks and roughest thrust get wasted on delicate little flowers who don’t -- _can’t_ \-- appreciate them; more worried about being broken in half than chasing the pleasure. Ignorant to the wealth that comes with a wet ass. 

Just once, Jungwoo wants a kiss. 

If there are no stairs, climb upon the backs of others. 

That’s Jungwoo’s nihilistic view of the world. And he guesses that some bible thumper, some religious scholar might frown down upon him for that, tell him that there would be some retribution for his actions, and Jungwoo would pretend he cared, would pretend to repent, knowing he’d go and do it again, with even more intention than he had the last time, if he could. 

He thinks of Johnny when he gets in his head like this; imagines that he’d press down on the spines, hard and heavy-footed, in combat boots meant to crush rock. Johnny would take his time, back-by-back, spine-by-spine, allowing the soles of his shoes to leave clear imprints in the skin. 

Johnny wouldn’t care. 

There’s an innate respect that Jungwoo has for Johnny. 

The way he manipulates, lies, _deceives_ , for nothing beyond his own personal gain. And Jungwoo only wishes he were that viscous, that cold-hearted, but somewhere along the way, while he was tossing aside his dignity for sex and a credit card, he hadn’t remembered to throw away his morality -- well, not _all_ of it anyways, though it wasn’t like he didn’t want to...like he didn’t _try_. 

Doyoung was a testament to that. 

Johnny obviously hadn’t flinched. 

Had so clearly tossed his morality aside, hard and whole, as soon as he could, for whatever reason fit his fancy. And Jungwoo would be disgusted by that, if he didn’t find the whole thing so fascinating in a cold, untouchable kind of way. 

It’s remarkable really, how Johnny can be tender and loving yet hard and distant all at once. A whirlpool of mental manipulation. Jungwoo watches Taeyong struggle to keep the few paces ahead he has. He’s lost a lot of ground since Mark’s been sent away, been taken. Johnny’s since moved in, gained ground, become inevitable. Jungwoo knows it’s scary for Taeyong, seeing living proof of the future. No more make-believing, no more playing pretend. 

And it’s fun for him, watching Taeyong squirm. Trying to assemble an army of troops that will never go to war; not for him anyway. Johnny’s propaganda is firmly set in place. Johnny told them “hate Taeyong,” and so they _hate_ him. No rhyme, no reason, just, _‘Johnny said, you see, which means we must...surely, you understand?’_ and Jungwoo does. Understands this base _instinct_ more than he understands himself. 

And in a world where things made actual sense, Jungwoo imagines he’d not be so… _in love_ with all this. He’d hate Johnny as much as he should, instead of having the pathetic silent respect he gives now. And it’s not really fair that anyone with anything resembling a conscience gets trampled and toppled over, is made to feel less than, unworthy, but life isn’t fair, and Jungwoo thinks it’s pointless to spend even one second crying about it. Time would be better spent learning not to give a fuck, and planning on how to get even. 

And Jungwoo would teach them, if he could, the dark art of absolutely not giving a fuck about anyone that wasn’t yourself. But it wasn’t really something that could be taught. It had to be, at some level, who you _were_. 

It’s a little thing really, the marginal difference in wanting to be bad, reveling in bad behavior and actually _being_ bad. It’s the teeny, tiny shred of ethics that separates the Mark’s from the Haechan’s. And Jungwoo knows it’s hard to conceptualize; realized, from an outside point of view it’d sound like he was making excuses for Mark, biased in that heavy-handed way Taeyong was. But it’s a little more complicated than that, and it’s something that needs to be understood very clearly: 

Haechan is bad, not evil. Mark is good, not honest. 

And those things, those fundamentals that people seem to struggle with, are the key to understanding where everything went wrong. Why Taeyong could take pity on Mark and hate Haechan, why Haechan could come to work, intent everyday, on ruining Mark’s life; why Mark would let him. 

Mark is good. Jungwoo can attest to that. 

Mark isn’t honest, Jungwoo has watched him lie. 

Small things, really, until they became big things. And Mark couldn’t have known that was the plan all along, and so he kept to his little lies, until he couldn’t buy his way out of them. Even with the $3m dollar watch hanging off his bony little wrist, he’d still come up short. 

And really, the lies Mark told, the small things he withheld, Jungwoo always wonders if Johnny had known he’d do that, if Johnny had known _Taeyong_ would tell him to lie, encourage it even, because that’s how Taeyong lived his paranoid, shallow life. Lying. Telling small tales to escape the truth. 

Johnny had to have known the guilt would eat Taeyong alive, that he’d spend the rest of his days from now till forever atoning for a crime he’d been forced to commit, while everyone around him played along -- pretended it had been difficult to make such an easy decision. 

Self -preservation is a bitch. Mark was their lord and savior. Jungwoo understood that just as much as Taeyong did. But he wouldn’t change anything about the choice he’d made. 

Fend for thyself -- he’s sure it’s in the old testament or something. 

Jungwoo guesses -- imagines -- the first time Mark limps into the office with a sore ass that Taeyong lies to himself before he lies to Mark. Tells Mark it’s OK, tells him there’s a way out, knowing deep down, that there absolutely _wasn’t_. And Jungwoo imagines Mark lies to himself too, pretends he believes Taeyong’s words. Pretends it’s normal to get a pair of $10k cufflinks after what is supposed to be a one-night stand. Pretends that every expensive gift Lucas gives him isn’t another link removed on his ball-and-chain. 

It’s always easiest to ignore things you don’t want to be true. You can’t be blind if you simply refuse to accept there’s anything to see. 

Mark made excuses for Haechan, more than Johnny does now. 

Jungwoo watched him do it, lying to himself , pretending that Haechan was his friend. Wanting so badly to have someone who liked him rather than idolized him. To stupid to see that Haechan had never liked him at all. Haechan had been obsessed, sure, infatuated, even, but had _never_ \-- could never -- like him; not as a person, not when Mark represented something Haechan could only aspire to be. Something Jungwoo realized he wasn’t, so long ago. 

Special. 

An inherent quality that made him stand out from all others. The chosen one in a group of many. 

Seoul is full of beautiful talented people, some more beautiful and talented than others. 

Haechan is bad; he hurts, he’s jealous. He wants what Mark can’t give him; it’s no longer Marks to give. And so Haechan conspires; Johnny gives him a flexible inch, and Haechan builds a highway. He’s like a mad scientist, he pokes and prods and tries his luck, realizes that Mark’s so weighed down by all his little lies that he _can’t_ fight back and attacks. 

Haechan is bad, not evil. 

Foolish, even, if Jungwoo had to pick a word. Chasing for favor that would never, could never, befall him. 

Jungwoo hands Mark a drink. 

Johnny pretends he doesn’t notice, Yuta pretends he can’t see. 

Mark is dying. Soon, he’ll be dead.


	18. Yuta: The Playback

_Cocaine is a helluva drug._

It’s 5:45 AM and Yuta’s rummaging through the kitchen of his overpriced Itaewon apartment, looking for a flat surface and a clean razor. It’s been 13 hours since his last hit -- at this point it’s medical -- he needs to get high, fortunately he’s got coke that cost him a fortune and a favor to spare; he won’t let it go to waste -- now’s as good a time as any. And sure, he could just do a bump and be done with it, but he wants to do lines. Loves the therapeutic nature of prepping his cocaine, rolling up a ₩50,000 bill, and snorting two girls for his troubles.

And maybe Yuta could be doing something else with his time and money, but he’s pretty content with getting high for now. 

It takes a good ten minutes of rummaging before he finds his designated coke ‘glass-top’ hidden in the murky grey waters of the kitchen sink, dirty and unwashed - remnants of last week's coke binge crusted on the surface. He’s too lazy to wash it off, but he needs a clean surface for the new shit he’s purchased -- a half kilo of 100% Colombian snow, procured directly from the cartel. It hadn’t been cheap either, at USD$20,000 that’s the entirety of Yuta’s… _quarterly bonus,_ he’ll call it, and so _no,_ he’s absolutely _not_ letting it mix with the baby-powder cut shit he gets from Ten’s shoddy and, if Yuta was being critical, _unprofessional_ dealer - this was _Seoul_ , not Manhattan, Yuta shouldn’t be asked to pick-up his own shit as if the police were _actively_ looking for drug dealers and Yuta _wasn’t_ paying him thousands of dollars; seriously, drop it off with the front desk attendant like _all the other dealers_ with some class and decorum. 

Yuta huffs, annoyed, haphazardly dropping the glass back into the sink before heading back to his room for an old Fleetwood Mac vinyl he’d sticky-fingered from Jaehyun -- he’d feel guilty about using it to do lines any other day, because Jaehyun loves the ‘Fleetwood Mac’ album and it’s in ‘like new’ condition -- today isn’t one of those days, besides, Yuta’s pretty sure most people listen to Stevie Nicks while high on _some_ form of narcotics; he’s just keeping with tradition. 

Truth be told, for all his nonchalance and general sleaziness, Yuta doesn’t normally do lines so early in the morning, but he’s tired and bored - body fatigued from the influx of alcohol and inhalation of tobacco smoke, and a couple other _prohibited_ substances from last night. _Maybe_ he’d done a few more hits of acid than necessary, had likely almost overdosed on Fentanyl while simultaneously on the verge of severe alcohol poisoning… so, really, the typical aftermath of attending a rager hosted by Jaehyun, where the rich low-lives with doting wives at home came to indulge privately, in vices that could never become public. 

Yuta doesn’t like to think too hard about it. What’s done is done. It is what it is. C’est la vie or Carpe Diem or whatever hippie bullshit you were supposed to say while not giving a fuck about...well… _anything._

And honestly, he’d tell you last night was amazing despite the fact that he doesn’t even _remember_ last night, at least not outside of the same old faces he’s used to seeing, and the same old music he’s used to hearing; sometimes, Yuta wonders if he’s _really_ had the best night of his life, or if he’s forcing the memory. Projecting an ideal of what he wants to be real. 

And that’s depressing. He doesn’t like that. 

Well...fuck it. 

Yuta cuts two lines of Colombia's finest and snorts. Revels in the quality, which is amazing; uncut and pure, flaky and shimmering in the dawn. He'd marry it if he could. 

Yuta collapses onto the couch, lets the high take him over. A blissful state of unfeeling and uncaring unleashed. 

This is still reality. 

“I’ve been calling you…” Taeyong's voice is curt and hollow. If Yuta was any type of aware he’d be weary, if he were smart, he’d tell Taeyong he’d been on a call with Johnny -- let Taeyong spend the rest of the day huffing and puffing about _that_. Right now though, he’s high on a combination of coke and weed, thoroughly convinced that by eating food in a bowl of water, his body will naturally adapt to having merman-like properties. Convince him he’s wrong. 

Instead, Yuta snorts, wet and dry all at once into the phone, lets the sound of his eyes rolling into the back of his head fill the silence. He’s itching to be insubordinate, he _wants_ to cause trouble. He’s been patient and it’s paid dividends, sure, but greed has always been something Yuta’s fallen victim too. He wants everything all at once. And if Jaehyun were here, he’d probably have stiff generic words, that when strung together in that lazy, Jaehyun fashion, made some semblance of logical thought -- and it would be enough to convince Yuta that Jaehyun _cared_ , and so he’d listen. 

But Jaehyun’s not here and Yuta has done more for far, far less. And he’ll stand at the altar for all his crimes; atone for every.single.one as long as he gets to have _this_. And then he’ll atone for this too; Yuta is a sinner _and_ a believer. They are intrinsically linked. He’d feel bare without both to ground him. 

“What are you bothering me about?” Yuta finally gets too after careful thought and consideration, meaning he’s overheard this exact same line just a few seconds ago on whatever Netflix series is acting as his white noise. And Yuta’s never this _bold_ ; he's always played his cards close to his chest. Has been hung out to dry enough times to understand that only the fools see weakness in Taeyong. But he’s out of it and it feels _good_ to _feel_ good, even if he knows that good feeling is only temporary. 

“So I’m bothering you?” Taeyong’s voice is like notes on a light cord, clear and crisp and fresh and bright; Yuta can see the demonic grin on his lips, glossed to perfection, not too much so that it looks campy, but moist enough that they look soft and kissable. 

“Yeah, _bothering_ ,” Yuta shoots back, a little more aggressive than he’d originally intended. Something tells him he should feel guilty about it, but he’s not in the state of mind to properly conceptualize all that. 

“Well...my apologies.” 

The line goes dead and Yuta’s head clears. 

Mistakes were made. 

He lights a cigarette, a cheap Marlboro natural he’d found in his jacket. 

Life on repeat. 

Jaehyun pushes the latest edition of Tatler: Hong Kong, across the conference room table, the magazine is thick, printed on those extra shiny, extra glossy pages that make everything seem twice as important as they really are. Yuta’s never really read Tatler, never really been interested in the politics of the social climbing bourgeoisie and the elite class. He’s seen Johnny on the cover of the Seoul edition once or twice, has caught Jaehyun reading his own 3 paragraph ‘articles’ and overheard Ten bitch about Taeyong making Seoul’s best dressed list _thrice_ \-- which according to Ten, is pretty much unheard of for someone who actually works for a living. 

Yuta tries not to laugh. It’s not funny, except it is. 

He eyes the cover with muted interest, Lucas and Mark are pictured, the shimmering image of a man with too much money and his barely legal boy-toy dressed to the nines, posed on a red carpet that likely leads to no where truly important, the hard task of sipping overpriced champagne, eating overpriced food and droning on and on about how liberals are fucking up the economy likely waiting for them inside. 

Yuta thanks them for their sacrifice. 

“Heads of Hong Kong Art Culture,” Yuta reads out-loud with a huff, flipping through the magazine roughly, until he gets to the cover article, a five page puff piece titled _“Party Art”_ ; shiny candids border the text, every image seemingly editorial in it’s own way. Yuta skims through the verbiage, catches the gist of the article though a few key sentences; 

_“...Banking heir Lucas Wong and boyfriend, Gallery Curator Mark Lee breathe new purpose into Cafe Society with a series of fundraising exhibits...”_

_“...with ‘Dinner on Canvas’ bumping Amfar down to third on our list for most coveted invitations of the social season..”_

_“...the gala raising $9 million in funding for the Wong Foundation for the Arts…”_

_“...the two art connoisseurs met at a gala fundraiser for childhood education hosted by the world-renowned Muse:Seoul Gallery…”_

_“...embarked on a whirlwind romance that brought Mr. Lee to Hong Kong where he’s since taken a role as Gallery Curator for Wong Galleries; it’s rumored he’ll soon take the vacant position of Director of Art at the Wong Foundation ...”_

_“...the couple, who can communicate in a multitude of different languages including English, Korean and Mandarin…”_

Yuta snorts, making sure to give his best pig impression, but still finds himself looking at the glossy pictures yet again, harder than he had the first time. 

“Lucas’ suits look nice…” is what he says first, his mouth twisting to the side in what feels like jealousy, but could be anything, including nothing.

Jaehyun nods, “They’re likely Brioni...he mentioned it once,” he stands from his seated position, reaches over to pull the magazine back to his side of the table, content, like Yuta was, to merely stare at the glossy pictures. 

Yuta picks at invisible dirt under his fingers. 

“You should leave that somewhere he might see it...you know, get him all riled up” 

Jaehyun simply flips through the pages; it makes Yuta feel self-conscious. 

“Is it even legal to do that, to just lie about everything like that? ‘

Jaehyun shrugs, “who’s gonna know?” and Yuta feels dumb for even asking. 

“Look at Mark though... from baby-prostitute protege fucking rich men in the...well, we can’t call it _privacy_ , but the … I don't know, _dimness_ , of the employee stairwell to…” Yuta grabs the magazine back, rougher than intended but gentle all the same “ rumored _Director of Art_ at the Wong Foundation.” 

That gets him a chuckle from Jaehyun. It makes him feel nice. 

“Taeyong should be proud...”

 _Johnny should too,_ Yuta thinks with a sour taste settling on his tongue. Definitive proof you could always get exactly what you wanted, so long as you had the money and the gall. You could wear a target down so long as you stuck to it; you didn’t need to out-do, only outlast…

And if you had the money, if you were a part of the elite set...

Well…

Reality is just a word. 

Yuta had seen it, had watched Lucas and Johnny, even _Jaehyun_ with his prestigious last name, shape their realities based on nothing more than what they wanted. 

Lucas had done it to Mark, had bent him to his will, broken him for all the world to see, and then kept him, like a pet. And the world allowed it, because who were any of _them_ to tell Lucas Wong what he could and could not do. Mark would just have to deal with it; with the burning humiliation and degradation that came from being stripped in a stairwell and mounted on the cold, dirty ground like some kind of bitch in heat. 

Yuta recalls watching the security footage. Mark had taken the rough, humiliating fuck on the chin, let Lucas spread him wide and splay him long, let Lucas take his time, enjoy his pleasure. When Lucas slaps his ass and tells Mark ‘ride me’ Mark does without complaint or argument and Yuta can see, even through the grainy security camera footage how Lucas loses himself every time Mark sheaths Lucas back inside. Lucas is verbal, cursing and praising and demanding all at once. Lucas pushes Mark up against the wall as he gets closer to cumming, twists Mark’s hair in his hand, and yanks his head back; he’s boxed Mark between his chest and the wall, hips pistoning with entitled speed. Mark takes it, doesn’t even make noise so that Lucas' pleasure goes undisturbed. It’s the most disgustingly erotic thing Yuta has ever seen. 

When it’s done Mark simply pulls his clothes back on and walks out, immediately breaks into a smile and handshake at the next big wig in his line of view, talking cordially, jovially about the great work Muse:Seoul is doing. The big-wig catches Lucas out of the corner of his eye, invites him over to chat, and like some little trophy date, Mark makes himself scarce, goes to get them flutes of champagne and exotic hors d'oeuvres as they chat, Lucas occasionally snaking an arm around his waist; and like some kind of trained dog, Mark only nods enthusiastically, laughs at all the right moments, makes sure to smile up at Lucas in perfect time. 

Someone please, get the boy an Oscar. 

Yuta can't take anymore. He stops the playback just as Taeyong appears in the upper righthand corner of the frame, elegant and show stopping as always, flamboyant but debonair all the same. If Yuta recalls the night correctly, Taeyong and Mark are actually ‘matching’ in a way, taking the ‘Piano Man’ theme of the party to the greatest heights it can go. Taeyong had gone Liberace and Mark had gone Sir Elton John. They make for a stunning pair at the center of the party, young faces, shiny hair and lean, slender bodies decked out in fantastical campy outfits that Yuta is sure made the pages of some older edition of ‘Tatler: Seoul’. 

And Yuta imagines if he were young and beautiful and devoid of human empathy, human _anything,_ if he went through life like a machine, he’d be OK with living out his days as some sort of life-sized Korean Ken doll. If it meant he’d have access to the fortunes of Johnny or Lucas, hell, even Jaehyun, Yuta could find it within himself to be the prized pony at the horse show, strut around with no real intentions, no real direction or life goals so long as he got paid in gold in diamonds. He’d take humiliating, degrading sex on a dirty floor just out of ear-shot of some of the worlds wealthiest people if it meant he’d be able to actually afford living. 

Yuta has done far more, for far, far less. 

“So he called you about what? The payments from Lucas?” Jungwoo’s voice is always so...agile -- Yuta doesn’t even know if that makes sense, but it’s the best descriptor he has. Yuta nods, twirling the Muse:Seoul branded pen he’s swiped from Doyoung’s desk between his fingers. It’s really not fair how HR gets first rights to all the branded goods. 

“I honestly don’t know why he called…” Yuta takes a sip of his coffee, it’s a generic iced caramel macchiato from Starbucks because he’s not up Felt’s ass to the point where he’ll pay ₩14,000 for half a cup of ice. “We never got that far into the conversation,” Yuta lets the extra caramel drizzle sit on his tongue, “I told him he was bothering me and then he hung up all pissy…” he trails off, makes a show of throwing his hands up like he’s just that exasperated. He hopes it convinces Jungwoo he’s got things even slightly under control. It’d surely work on someone dumber, someone more gullible...someone like Taeil or Haechan or Ten, who seemed to think the regular course of the day was an obstacle. Unfortunately for Yuta, he’s speaking to Jungwoo who just so happens to be the exact opposite of dumb and gullible.

“There any risk here?” Jungwoo is always professional and forward thinking, he doesn’t panic -- he’s steady. Yuta likes that about him. He shakes his head in the negative; there isn’t any inherent risk that he can think of, all of their bases are still covered. 

“Taeyong’s been trailing Kun though...he’s still convinced something's up…” 

Yuta shrugs. These are his proverbial aces in the hole. 

“Taeyong’s paranoid about everything…” he makes a show of shrugging in that ‘what can you do?’ manner before taking another sip of his drink. “He’s always wrong anyways.” Yuta finishes with a smack of his lips and an annoying “ahh” -- he might be overselling it, but he’s never been particularly good at being deceitful. He wasn’t as practiced as Jungwoo, who could sleep with Doyoung’s boyfriend and then turn around and ask him about Valentine's day. 

Jungwoo raises a brow, sighs as he turns to walk out of the room, “yeah...except when he’s not.” 

Yuta can’t panic even if he wants to. 

He has to take his reward. 

He’s done far more, for far, far less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I wasn't feeling well for a little while there but am back in good condition! Hope you're all still interested and enjoying! 
> 
> Thanks!


	19. Renjun: The Diplomat

_*Beep* This is Sonia Chiu from Hang Seng Bank, please be aware that your account with us is still past due in the amount of HKD38,751.00. Please submit your payment immedia-” *Beep*_

_Message Deleted_

“100 bucks they don’t last till Christmas.”

Ying Yue is all dagger smiles and jealous eyes as she drops the latest edition of Tatler on his desk, it hits the surface with an annoying ‘slap’ that echoes unnecessarily loud. Renjun shrugs, tilts his head to the side, “that’s easy money” he says with a grin. Ying Yue huffs, her index finger tracing the outline of Lucas' mouth on the cover. 

“He’ll want an heir” she speaks confidently, her fingers moving up to play at her fringe. It’s honestly not her best look in Renjun’s opinion, but she’s been deep into Kpop these days, and apparently all the Kpop girls have got fringes. He prefers to see her forehead, it’s tall and regal, makes her look a little less ‘common’, a little more worthy. 

Renjun sips his tea, glances up at her with the most uninterested face he can muster. “He can get a surrogate...he can adopt…” -- he tries to pretend none of this pains him as much as it really does. 

_“Orrrrr”_ Ying Yue drags, her lipstick a pretty cherry blossom pink against her skin, “he could, you know, fuck me, marry me and all his problems would be solved…” she finishes with a toss of her hair. 

Renjun rolls his eyes. “I’m sure once he’s done digging around in Mark’s ass, you’ll be the first person he calls.” it comes out drier than he had intended. 

“What’s with you today?” Ying Yue hoists herself up onto the corner of his desk, she’s lost weight recently and Renjun can see it in the soft hollow of her cheeks. How do the rappers say? ‘Mark taught her.’ He shrugs again, unwilling and unsure, “Well...what do you do? I’m his secretary...it’s not my job to get involved in his love life…” 

Ying Yue scoffs, runs thin fingers through the freshly blunted ends of her hair, “you have it easiest, you’re with him all the time -- just...I don’t know, _seduce_ him or something -- fuck getting _involved_ in his love life, _be_ his love life....” she grabs the mug out of his hands, takes a quick sip, “...and then convince him that $5M is a reasonable surrogacy fee for me…” she puts the mug down, her eyes sharp and focused on Renjun’s features. 

“If it was that easy, I’d have done it already…” Renjun grabs his laptop, notebook and pen, stands up and blacks his computer screen, “besides, he’s really _not_ my type.” 

  
  


You hear a lot about heaven from people who’ve never been. Renjun finds it kind of funny, the way they proselytize _at_ him, as if he has any reason to spend the life he _knows_ , with the consequences and repercussions he _understands_ , in fear of something completely and totally _unverifiable_. And maybe it _is_ all true, maybe Renjun _will_ end up in a line too long, waiting to be judged before a panel of his human peers, recounting -- _excusing_ \-- every shitty thing he’s ever done in the hope that they understand, he, just like they were once, is merely human. 

To err is human; it’s a quote too famous not to be a solid defense. 

And maybe they’ll buy his sob story, or maybe it’ll just be another point in the ‘nay’ column that gets him closer and closer to the comforts of hell. He’s miserable in life, and in all honesty, he’s likely to find himself more at home there. 

And he imagines the comfort of hell is something like what he’s experiencing now, a meeting in Lucas grande office, where he’s seated across from Mark, obviously freshly fucked, likely across the very couch on which Renjun is sitting. 

Mark looks broken and whole as always. He’s all boyish smiles and seasoned eyes, small hands gripping at Renjun’s gently, in the most limp handshake a human can possibly muster -- Renjun forces himself not to flinch in disgust when their hands touch. 

And Renjun _tries_ to coach his face into the same weary but determined nonchalance Mark wore on his own; and maybe, for once, Lucas would see him. 

And Renjun won’t _beg_ him, but you bet like hell he’ll pray on it. And maybe that’s another strike against him with the grading panel in the sky -- Renjun only ever praying when he _needs_ something. 

But he’ll deal with that later -- for now, he simply hopes the celestial equivalent of DHL isn’t on holiday. 

  
  


“Let’s talk about Seoul…” Lucas starts, his back to the two of them as he looks out his wall of glass at the commoners below. 

“Yes sir,” Renjun nods into action, flipping through pages in his notebook and pulling up documents on his laptop as Mark just _sits there_ in his usual ‘trophy boyfriend’ manner -- smiling and nodding at Renjun in what he guesses is supposed to be encouragement. 

And if Renjun didn’t absolutely _need_ this damn job, he’d be petty and ask Mark to report out first; ask if he could talk in depth about anything that wasn’t Lucas dick. 

Renjun doubts he could, Mark’s as full of shit as his ass is full of Lucas’ cum. 

And Renjun isn't _jealous_ or anything. 

“The following are booked for this trip: Lee, Mark; Huang, Hendery; Huang Renjun; Wong, Lucas; Xiao Jun; Zhong, Chenle. Qian Kun is already in Seoul Sir. Our flight leaves at 5pm on Thursday from HKIA. Outbound departure and inbound return slots have been booked, and parking spaces reserved. The crew has been alerted and is preparing for the flight. We will be boarding the Wong G550 and our flight-time is estimated at just under 4 hours. Once in Seoul, tarmac car service will take us to the VIP Donghae suite where all customs and immigration, and baggage claim will occur. From there, a private car service takes us to our hotel, The Four Seasons Seoul. We have booked the three bedroom Presidential Suite, the two bedroom Sejong Suite, and the one bedroom Ambassador’s suite -- which Kun is already occupying.” 

Renjun pauses for air, ignores the finger he sees Mark holding up in his peripheral. 

“There is a private welcome dinner on the first night, hosted by Mr. Seo Johnny, President and CEO of Muse:Seoul, at his residence, it is expected to be a small, personal dinner Sir, from what I understand, solely Mr. Seo and Mr. Lee will be in attendance...” 

He forces himself not to look over at Mark. 

“Over the duration of the next 8 days, all dining options are at our discretion, though I have taken the liberty to hire a private chef on retainer, his information has been passed to the front-desk staff at the Four Seasons along with a grocery list; the fridge should be stocked for the chef and for personal consumption needs. Four cars, all Rolls Royce Phantoms, will be in retainer for this trip -- those four cars will transport the team wherever they need to go. On the final night, Muse:Seoul is hosting a farewell dinner to be held in the private dining room at ‘Flavors’ restaurant, 7:30 pm” 

He finishes with a big swallow of air and a dry mouth. 

“Mark,” Lucas calls, his voice gruff and lacking practice “Do you have any places you want us to go for dinner?” he walks over to the couch, places a large hand on Mark’s head, pets down the imaginary stray hairs before he leans down to give him a soft kiss. 

It's dark and warning-- Lucas' large hand gripping Mark jaw tightly. 

“Tell Renjun and he’ll reserve it for you,” he kisses him softly again, and despite the fact that Renjun is sitting less than 4 feet away from them, and Lucas has acknowledged his presence within the room, he feels disgustingly invisible. 

Mark shakes his head, smooths down the non-existent wrinkles in his slacks. “That was great Renjun, you’ve covered everything.” His voice is annoyingly jovial and bright. 

It pisses Renjun off, Mark thinking he cares about his meaningless praise. 

Renjun keeps his face passive, rolls his lips into a tight smile, pen twirling in his hand impatiently. 

“So…” Renjun knows his voice is gritty and unpleasant, “do you have any,” he licks his lips, feels the chap across the top, “...places you wanted to go, _specifically_?” 

Mark’s eyes go wide and he presses a hand to the side of his neck, rubs it slowly, like he’s contemplating though they both know he’s not. 

“Nowhere in particular,” he answers, schooling his face into the general passivity that feeds Lucas' addiction. “If I think of anything though, I’ll reserve it myself, so no worries.” he gives a smile -- it makes him look even younger than he is. 

Makes Renjun hate him even more than he already does. 

Renjun nods, lets his eyes roll over to Lucas who is now back near the window -- back peering down at the fodder in the streets. 

“That’s all.”

Just like that, they’re dismissed. And Renjun should feel good about this -- the fact that Lucas isn’t rubbing his favoritism in his face -- but he doesn’t. 

And if he wasn’t too afraid to wonder what that meant, he might give it some thought. It just so happens that he is, and so he won’t. 

He and Mark stand up to leave; they walk, in sync, out of the double doors of Lucas office and into the hall. 

Renjun is content with the awkward silence, takes comfort in it -- and then he hears a giggle. 

He turns his head sharply, almost gives himself whiplash as he lets his eyebrows dip in displeasure, “what’s so funny?” he licks his lips again, quickly, like a cat -- he really should invest in some sort of balm. 

Mark shakes his head, perfectly shiny hair swaying as he does so, “nothing, nothing --” he answers, removes the hand covering his mouth and uses it to smooth his hair back into place, “you have an amazing day Renjun,” he turns to go left, towards the elevator lobby, his patented broken and weary expression settling back into place. 

It gives Renjun chills. 

He watches the elevator descend, disappointed in the reliability of Cantonese engineering. 

  
  


“Chenle” Renjun leans against Chenle’s desk, arms crossed and face frowned, “let's get lunch…you can buy”

He tries not to laugh as Chenle stops typing long enough to glare at him. “Do you _not_ earn a salary?” 

Renjun shrugs, “yeah, I do, but it’s shit, you’re the PA -- don’t you like, _know_ people who can be talked into giving us a free lunch in the belief that a recommendation from you to Lucas might...I don’t know, generate some publicity?” he scratches behind his ear as he says it. 

Chenle peers up at him, lips pursed and a single brow raised -- he leans back, crosses his arms behind his head. “Fine -- you’re paying the taxi fare...”

“Why can’t we just take a car?” 

Chenle stands up, grabs his wallet and jacket, “they’re all in use…” 

Renjun scowls -- he’s got roughly $105 dollars left in his checking account, and he’d prefer not to use that on cab fare. 

“Don’t worry, we can get there by tram,” Chenle reassures, laughing as he pulls his Jacket on. 

It’s not free, but it’s cheap enough. 

Tin Lung Heen is the type of restaurant that Renjun wouldn’t be allowed to step foot in, if not for being able to throw Lucas' name around. Chenle flashes his business card, does his best ‘looking around bordely’ act and they are quickly seated at a table with a view overlooking the city. Their menus are taken away, and the waiter assures them they’ll get a tasting rotation of all their best dishes -- it’s all on the house. 

Renjun squirms in his seat; a Michelin star meal for free. 

This could be his life, _should_ be his life. 

Ying Yue is right. He _has_ to work a little harder. 

“So, what do I owe the pleasure of you asking me to take you to lunch?” Chenle smirks as he swivels the house wine around in his glass as if he knows anything about spirits. 

Renjun rolls his eyes, glances around the room, taking in the high ceilings and dramatic chandelier. “I wanted a free lunch, _obviously_ ,” he looks back at Chenle, a crooked smirk on his face. “I’m down to a half pack of ramen and a singular spring onion...you’ve got all the food contacts…” 

Chenle nods, face settling into a satisfied expression. And he’s so naive and young and hopeful and lacking in bitterness that Renjun doesn’t really know what to do with him. 

“It’s true, I do…” Chenle trails off, places the glass on the table, twiddles his thumb instead, “so, what’s bothering you?”

Renjun sits up a little straighter -- hopes the cheaply dyed polyester blend of his blazer isn’t rubbing off on the seats. 

“Nothing’s _bothering_ me -- I’m just...Mark’s fucking weird…” he makes direct eye contact with Chenle as the waiter brings the first course. 

Chenle’s head tilts to the side like a small puppy, and Renjun would think it’s cute for the fact that Chenle is a _sympathizer_ of their Korean invader. 

“We were walking out of Lucas office today and he just like, randomly _laughed_ at me...and oh, by the way, check out the latest edition of Tatler and tell me I was wrong when I first told you they were fucking...” 

Chenle rolls his eyes, dabs his lips of the bright red marinade coloring them. “Ok, but I never said they _weren’t_ ,” Chenle grabs for rice and a Shumai dumpling, “I asked how _you_ knew they were…” he puts the whole dumpling in his mouth, chews politely before he reaches for another, “I mean, I knew -- _obviously_ I knew -- I’m Lucas PA, I’ve literally had to wait in the fucking _den_ because they were on the couch…” 

Renjun stuffs his mouth full of abalone and scallops as Chenle talks, “I’ve probably seen more of Lucas ass than Mark has at this point.” 

“But you acted like Mark _would never_ ,” Renjun is all spite and harsh hushed whispers, grabbing for more Char Siu pork as Chenle helps himself to a generous scoop of claypot rice. 

Chenle glares at him over chopsticks of braised chicken feet. “What I mean is, I’m sure if he had the _option-_ ” his voice is tight. 

“I’m sure if he had the _option,_ ” Renjun mocks his tone, “ he’d _still_ be _fucking_ him...why are you so delusional about this?” 

“I’m _not_ delusional,” Chenle’s brows draw in closer to one another, “how do you _not_ see that it’s different?” 

Renjun crosses his arms, looks out onto the city view. “I’m not saying that I don’t _see_ , I’m saying I don’t trust his ‘innocent little me’ origin story.” 

Chenle’s face scrunches and Renjun sighs again, ready for the righteous fury that becomes Chenle whenever you allude that Mark might not be the patron saint he pretends to be. 

“But that was-” Chenle lets out a big breath, shakes his head and goes back to eating, nibbles on another chicken foot before he turns back to Renjun. “What should we do on our day off in Seoul.” 

Renjun smiles. 

Chenle is an innocent, Renjun shouldn’t ruin him with this. 

Sometimes belief in things that don’t exist is all you really have. 

“I don’t want that room, it’s literally right next door...what if they start fucking-- it’s probably not even sound proof..”

“They will definitely start-”

“Ok, so then why the _fuck_ would I take the room right fucking next to theirs?…” 

“Why should I take it?” 

“You hear them fucking all the time...you’ve literally waited for them to finish...you said so yourself...” 

“Yeah, so I’ve been traumatized _e-fucking-nough_...give me the far room” 

“No.” 

“You’re _Lucas_ secretary -- you should be closer to him in case he needs anything” 

“ _You’re_ his fucking PA -- he’ll need _you_ before he needs me; plus what if Mark needs you…aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, _whore-sitting_ or whatever...” 

“Why can’t we just share this room over here, look, even the floor-plan says it has two queen beds” 

“Why should I have to share a room, when there’s a whole third bedroom?” 

“So then _use_ it…” 

“....I _am_ , by assigning it to you; I was just giving you the courtesy of knowing you should probably pack your earplugs.” 

“Get fucked...” 

“Might wanna, you-know, make sure you buy them using Prime so they get here by Wednesday…” 

At Tuesday’s weekly staff meeting, Renjun has the misfortune of sitting across from Mark, who smiles at him as he takes his seat; it’s the same broken, tired smile he gives him every time they meet. Renjun sits quietly, returns the smile with about as much enthusiasm as you’d have waiting for a root-canal. Mark’s eyes seem to blink to life at that, and it unnerves him just a bit. 

“I see you got a hair-cut” Renjun can be cordial when he needs to be, even if he doesn’t want to be. 

Mark runs a hand through his hair and Renjun watches with rapt attention as the $3.85M Blancpain Pain Le Brassus Tourbillon Carrousel slides gently down his arm as he does so. 

It’s a gift from Lucas. Renjun remembers Chenle bitching about needing two signatures to receive the order; Ying Yue had ended up tagging along to act as a witness to the handover and then spent the next two weeks talking about the watch. 

It’s an absolute mind-fuck to see something so expensive worn so casually. Renjun hates Mark for desperately needing to show it off. Renjun sneers at the ostentatious display in his head; yes, we _know_ , you’re the ultimate trophy-boyfriend, we _get it_. 

“..Fox and The Barber…” Mark’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, he looks at Renjun, bright eyed and curious, and Renjun runs a hand through his own shoddy ‘cuts by Renjun’ trim. 

“I cut my own hair,” he responds curtly, having missed the majority of what Mark’s said. It’s pointless to mull over it though; he’s sure it’s all senseless, pointless filler that remains perfectly in-character. 

“Excited to be going back home?” Renjun pulls out his notebook and pen. If he’s lucky, their return flight will be 57kg lighter -- maybe they’ll even shave some time off the flight. 

Mark glances over at him, his lips quirked up in a manner a little more excitable than before. Renjun swallows whatever clump is forming in his throat, wills away whatever fuzziness is taking over his head. 

“It’ll be nice...to see my old friends…” he grabs at his elbows, hugs himself as the rest of the team pretend not to overhear. 

Lucas is always late, and Renjun estimates they’ve got another 5 or so minutes before he shows up, excuse-less, but impatient and unsatisfied all the same. 

“You worked for Muse:Seoul before you came here didn’t you? Under Johnny…” 

Mark’s smile goes tight and Renjun pretends he can’t tell this is _sensitive_ for him. Renjun honestly doesn’t care if it makes Mark uncomfortable or not. He’s on a mission here; he can’t let silly little things like empathy and compassion for your fellow man compromise that. 

It was especially easy to follow through when he _hated_ said fellow man. 

“I worked under Taeyong actually…” Mark’s smile is more natural now. His eyes focused into something more human and relatable. 

“What made you come out here?” Renjun feigns ignorance and interest all at once; ignores the look Chenle gives him from his seat next to Mark. 

“A change of scenery I guess…” Mark lies with ease. 

Renjun almost snorts at that, until he remembers he expected nothing less. 

“Enough chit-chat,” Lucas throws his wallet and keys onto the table with reckless abandon, roughly pulls out the chair at the head of the table. He glances around the room, quickly taking attendance. 

“Mark, get up here…” he points to the chair Xiao Jun occupies. 

Xiao Jun moves quickly and quietly, presses himself up against the wall as Mark sits down, placing his notebook and pen in front of him as if he’ll actually be assigned real work. 

“Renjun.” Lucas nods in his direction, and Renjun nods in return, his laptop up and ready to-go. 

Lucas stands at the head of the table, a manic gleam in his eyes. 

“So," he starts, almost leisurely, "let’s talk about hostile takeovers.”


	20. Haechan: Dealmaker

_“Oh fuck…shit, yes….RIGHT THERE….aaahhhh yessss...fuckkk, that’s it...fuck me...fucking, fuck me.”_

_“You like that huh? You like it when I give it to you rough? You like it don’t you?”_

_“Fuck yeah…love that shit...mor-hard -- harder”_

_“That’s it, yes, right there...fuck”_

_“You’re so fucking perfect, Mark.”_

_Haechan blinks, finds his voice through his burning throat and labored breaths._

_“Yeah... I am, aren't I?”_

Haechan sweats away the last pesky traces of his conscience on a king-sized bed in the executive suite of the Park Hyatt Seoul. His body draped by the larger, bulkier frame of a man twice his age; a closeted Judge, whose name he can’t remember, with a wife and kid -- _kids_ \-- at home. Haechan doesn’t know the details; two boys or two girls, twins or adopted, first wife or second. Just knows they _exist_ \-- likely suspicious but too in-love with the dream to disrupt it. 

And Haechan _should_ feel guilty; he’d been that kid, tired and naive, waiting with moist eyes and a raw throat by the door. His mother, that wife, tired and weary, only just strong enough -- refusing to harm her child with truths, even as she harmed herself with lies -- keeping the dream alive, even when that dream was just a sad prelude to a nightmare whose end comes only at death. 

Yes, he _should_ feel terrible. 

He doesn’t. 

He should be ashamed, but isn’t; runs his hands across the Judge’s own -- deft fingers proudly, _boldly_ , grazing the gold wedding band he couldn’t be bothered to take off. Haechan hadn’t minded; had enjoyed the press of the cool surface digging almost painfully into his skin, enjoyed the slip across his sweat slicked back. 

No, Haechan can’t remember this man's name, but he won’t forget _how he made him feel_ \-- wanted and needed. Haechan basks in it -- ignores the falsehoods. He doesn’t need them right now. Knows they’ll be back anyway. There is nothing his mind enjoys more than playing tricks on him; letting him get contented, letting him feel _special_ before ripping it all away. 

It’s his own fault really -- he should stick to normal addictions like drugs and sex and alcohol. Let himself get wrapped up in things he could buy, things that wouldn’t judge him; wouldn’t look at him with pitying eyes and sad smiles. And no, a bottle of Gin and a syringe full of Heroin wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ validate him, stroke his ego, make him _feel_ \-- but they couldn’t drag him down with words he didn’t want to hear either, couldn’t force him to face realities he didn’t want to accept. In fact, they’d take him far away, at least momentarily, and in that brief moment, maybe he’d find peace with himself. 

It’s time to go. 

He huffs, sits up on the bed to gather his bearings, checks the digital clock on the nightstand.  
3:32 AM. He should move faster. 

Haechan dresses quickly, efficiently. Ignores the unsatisfactory feel of not being stretched open nearly enough by the Judges’ wholly _average_ dick. Pretends he doesn’t care that nothing truly _hurts_ \-- reminds himself to stop talking it up, to make the next guy really _earn_ it. He grabs his keys and cellphone, takes a bottle of water from the mini-bar and heads for the door. 

He stumbles slightly in the lobby, the lights just a tad too bright and the concierge just a little too familiar. And Haechan isn’t _ashamed_ of anything, but finds misplaced curiosity annoying all the same. 

He pulls a cigarette out as he waves down a taxi -- texts Jaemin for his address as he slides into the backseat, ignores the curious look the old man gives him from his rearview mirror, declines the offer of aspirin and a stop for some hot tteokbokki. 

Haechan’s _not_ drunk, he _chooses_ to forget things -- focuses instead on the memories he wants to keep; the peppery, sensual smell of the Judge’s cologne, the glow of his fluorescent, freshly whitened teeth, the ostentatious flash of his Porsche key-fob, the diamond encrusted Cartier cufflinks. And he’s got no-one to _share_ these memories with, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t worth keeping. 

There are other things too, scenes in time that Haechan wishes he didn’t remember, but can’t seem to forget -- the flattering words and subtle, fleeting touches, flagrant compliments and undignified pleading -- the unrestrained want. 

None of it, for _him_. 

Haechan recalls it clearly. The club is dark and the music is loud; Haechan can see vividly and hear perfectly. He’s been sitting -- _watching_ \-- gaze neutral and mouth dry; his mood settled into something just shy of envious; frozen with barely contained rage at the Judge's persistent and narrowly focused pursuit of _Mark_. 

Haechan had wanted to slit his throat. 

“Do you have a car?” the Judge had shifted himself closer, licked his lips in anticipation, aroused at the mere _thought_. “I’ll buy you a car,” his hands ghost down Mark’s naked arm, body shivering from the mounting want. “I’ll get you a car...you’ll get an allowance…anything you need…” he pants into Mark's ear. 

Haechan glances over at Mark; he’s hardly paying attention, sips at his glass of very expensive champagne -- bought with the Judge’s money -- as if nothing is happening around him. 

Haechan hates that he’ll be praised for that too. 

“You’re so beautiful, do you know that?” the Judge huffs out, sweat pooling under his arms and at his back, dampening his expensive dress shirt in the process -- Jaemin would be livid if he wasn’t currently getting fucked across a low-flow toilet in the VIP bathrooms. Haechan should take a picture for him. 

“ _Let me _...let me take care of you...” it’s said with a heavy, almost reverent sigh, the Judge's hands hover, his fingers flexing and twitching, _afraid_ to touch but desperately wanting to all the same. __

__Mark gives him a small smile, runs a hand through his hair, a silky, shiny black that compliments his eyes, the motion gives a teasing glimpse of Mark's lean chest and tiny little waist from the gaping sides of his oversized muscle tee._ _

__The Judge throws back his champagne, _overwhelmed_ at simply the sight. _ _

__He licks his lips again, moves a little closer._ _

__“ _Please,_ ” his voice is shaky and Haechan can see the manic gleam in his eyes -- this is the summit for him, there will be no prize better than this. _ _

__“...I could take care of you...” it’s solemn and determined. Haechan would find it utterly _pathetic_ if he wasn’t burning with jealousy -- takes comfort in the fact that Mark is _expensive_ \-- the Judge can’t afford him. They will both leave this place alone. _ _

__“Hey,” Mark smiles softly at him, his voice like cultured jazz on a starry Paris night, “would you like another drink? I can get you another drink...”_ _

__The Judge smiles, stutters out a bumbling “yes” as Mark rises and makes his way to the bar, the Judges’ eyes glued to the shape of his ass in skintight black jeans._ _

__Haechan tries to stifle his laughter._ _

__Mark’s not coming back._ _

__It’s 10 minutes and 5 shots of vodka later before Haechan moves closer, runs his hands up the Judges’ thigh, lets his fingers linger dangerously close to the straining erection._ _

__“Hey big guy,” Haechan whispers, low and throaty in his ear, runs his middle finger directly up the zipper, watches the Judge shudder as he desperately grabs for him -- Haechan moves just slightly out of reach, cloaks himself in the bitter, spiteful darkness. “Sorry I took so long…” flirts his fingers across the Judges' nape, is rewarded with a drunken and dazed moan._ _

__Haechan presses further into the Judges’ side, rubs his crotch lazily up and down the Judges’ clothed thigh._ _

The Judge hisses, his head thrown back in pleasure. “Let me, _please,_ ” he’s panting now -- his voice colored with surreal glee. 

Haechan smirks, presses the flat of his palm against the erection, rubs his hand slowly up and down. “No,” Haechan’s voice is teasing, hot puffs of breath hitting the junction of the Judges’ neck and shoulder, he presses harder as the judge slowly grinds against him, “let _me._ ” 

__

__

__Mark’s birthday is an office wide affair, Taeyong would have no less; and of course, like peasants, they must gather around to adulate their betters. Mark, Taeyong and Johnny stand on the stage, the inherent monarchy they are._ _

Haechan’s throat burns with protest -- and it’s not that he hates the monarchy, not that he hates the idea. No, what he _hates_ is that he’s not one of them. 

He’d do _anything_ to be one of them. 

“Isn’t this a bit much?” he whispers to Taeil, who simply huffs in agreement. And Haechan doesn’t particularly _like_ Taeil, finds his bitterness too much for even Haechan to swallow, but Jaemin is useless during times like these, he’d been part of the _committee_ to plan this elaborate ode to Mark. 

“I got a card and a box of donuts in the break room,” Taeil’s eyes narrow, “....in honor of Taeil’s birthday, everyone gets a stale donut…” he rolls his shoulders, straightens his tie. “But I guess I’m just not,” he lets it sit, lets it build, “... _important_ enough.” 

__Haechan nods at that, forces his eyes away from the enticing pull of Taeil’s hate to take in their surroundings._ _

They are in the lower gallery, there is a buffet of food, and an assortment of drinks -- soft classical music playing in the background; there’s a _cake_ , a little fondant Mark sits atop, and even this has been made with so much _care_ , the fondant of the face pressed in just so, to reflect the hollows of Mark’s cheeks. 

__It’s the ugliest thing Haechan’s ever seen in his entire life._ _

__“Haechan...you having fun?” Jaemin is all smiles and freshly cut hair, Taeyong’s secretary, Jisung, at his side._ _

__Haechan starts to snort, catches himself as Jisung readies his pen. Makes a show of looking around instead; hopes Jisung isn’t savvy enough to catch his bullshit._ _

__“This is cute…” Haechan starts, takes a spoonful of cake into his mouth to really sell it. Ignores the itch of hurt running along his skin and the memory of a simple card shoved in his hand at the end of the day. “Happy Birthday.” Doyoung had done the honors - clinical and detached, different from the careful doting he was doing now. Haechan’s card is lifeless and grey -- Taeyong had at least bothered to sign it. “LTY” it reads, non-committal and uncaring, a world away from the 10 minute monologue for Mark._ _

__“The cake is great…” he finishes with a smile, eyes flickering over to Jisung who doesn’t look convinced of his enjoyment. “...you guys get a slice?” he makes a show of looking back over to the desert bar, tries to get his brows to settle into a believable ‘concerned’ expression._ _

__Jisung nods, his expression still blank. Jaemin nods, his hair bouncing up and down dramatically. “Yeah, the party planning committee gets to eat first,” he says, like it’s some badge of honor._ _

__Haechan hates seeing him like this._ _

__“Well I’m gonna go get more,” Haechan lies, his exit strategy already mapped out in his head -- he gives a tight-lipped smile as Jaemin pats him on the shoulder before he slides into a conversation with another set of devotees._ _

__Haechan tosses the cake in the nearest trash bin and heads for the elevator._ _

__His eyes lock with Jisung’s just as the door closes._ _

__

__“You skipping out on the birthday party?” Lucas' voice is what Haechan’s wet dreams are made of._ _

“And you’re not?” he teases back, angles his body so the bloat from his lunch isn’t so visible. Lucas likes them _small_. 

__“It’s Mark’s birthday right..” Lucas rubs his chin, his full lips folding into a slight smile. “He’s been helpful while we work on getting this board meeting together…”_ _

Haechan hides his quickly darkening mood behind a smile. “That’s _Mark_ for you...always _helpful._ ” 

__Lucas laughs, moves a little closer to Haechan and it makes him regret not wearing his premium cologne -- of all the days to have settled with generic CK One._ _

“And are you saying you _aren’t_?” 

Haechan smirks, plays with his fringe, tries to get in the _zone_. 

“I’m _plenty_ helpful when it suits me.” He leans against the wall, open and inviting; cocks his head to side and hopes the light is doing great things for his profile. 

__Lucas raises a brow, breaks into a full smile._ _

__“I’ll keep that in mind.”_ _

__Haechan wets his lips with his tongue._ _

“As long as it’ll be worth my while, feel free to give me a call…” and he knows he’s laying it on thick, but he’s barely making minimum wage and Wong is a _billionaire_. 

__Lucas eyes him, a glimmer of something devious and clever shines behind the flutter of his lashes as he pulls a small box from the pocket of his blazer._ _

__“Give this to Mark for me? He’ll know it’s from me...”_ _

__Haechan nods, the prickling, bitter feeling setting in again._ _

__Lucas eyes him again, makes him feel like he’s in some sort of test._ _

__Haechan shakes the feeling as the elevator doors open to the street level and Lucas takes two long strides outside. He glances back over his shoulder at Haechan, a gentle smile on his face._ _

__“Are you and Mark friends?” his hair flutters just slightly in the breeze. He’s the definition of ‘a vision’._ _

__Haechan chews on his bottom lip, holds the elevator door open as Lucas waits for an answer._ _

__“We’re...yeah -- yes...we’re...we’re friends,”_ _

__Lucas nods, seems to like that answer, though his eyes hold a trace of laughter._ _

__“...I’ll make it worth your while then.” He signals to his driver in the distance._ _

__Haechan lets the 'door open' button go._ _

__Contemplates the weight of the box in his hand._ _

__

__

__“You’re contesting your performance review?” Taeyong leans against the door of his office, fresh-faced and thinner than ever; he and Mark had always cared about making sure they stayed on the leaner side of ‘feather light’ despite their love of food._ _

__He sits up straight, tries not to let any signs of distress seep into his gaze._ _

__He settles on a simple “Yes.” after a few too many seconds of contemplating._ _

__Taeyong raises a perfectly threaded brow, mouth quirking up just slightly at the corner._ _

__“You remain the dumbest person at this company,” Taeyong’s voice is sensual and inviting, “...well, third dumbest, Taeil and Yuta still work here…” he crosses his arms as he peers around Haechan’s humble office. And of course, small and shitty as it is, Taeyong had thought it too much. Would prefer to have Haechan working outside near the dumpster if he could._ _

__“I’m smart enough to still be here…” Haechan risks the sass, watches as Taeyong’s brows rise and his eyes widen, lips pulling into a tight line. Disgust working its way slowly onto his features. He lets out a disbelieving ‘ha’ and an exasperated sigh._ _

“You’re right you know...you are _smart enough_ to still be here…” Taeyong's eyes roll up to the ceiling, before they shift back over to Haechan -- he smiles. 

__“...but you’re stupid and simple minded in general.”_ _

__“I told Mark to tell the truth you know…” Haechan takes a sip of his desk water; it's too warm now -- makes him thirstier than before. He guesses it’s instant karma for pretending there was any modicum of humanity in that._ _

__Taeyong chuckles, brushes the imaginary dust off his suit, “Of course you did…” he pushes his hair behind his ears._ _

__“Leave it to you to pretend like you had his best interest at heart...you told him to _‘tell the truth’_ \-- tell me _Haechan,_ how would that have _helped_ him? Or did you want Lucas to fuck him over even more…” Taeyong’s voice is harsh and cutting, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. _ _

__“Seriously, _tell me_ , how telling the _truth_ would’ve made all his fucking problems -- you know, the ones that _you_ , and everyone fucking else in here _created for him_ \-- ” his voice bounces off the thin walls, “ _...GO AWAY, WHEN YOU FUCKED HIM OVER FROM THE ONSET?_ ” _ _

And Haechan doesn’t have an answer for that, because it _wouldn’t_ have helped. He’d known it then, knows it now. It still _sounds_ better saying he suggested it, then saying he suggested nothing at all. And he knows that’s silly -- stupid even -- because it wouldn’t have mattered either way. 

__His conscience is clear regardless._ _

Taeyong’s chest heaves, “and you know, he didn’t even...I mean, how _could_ he have known… _honestly_ , who would’ve thought…” 

Taeyong laughs, it’s a pretty, delirious thing. Haechan won’t feel bad for him. _Taeyong_ should’ve known. 

“And for what? Because he made you feel like you weren’t _special_ …you _weren’t_...you _aren’t_...” 

__Taeyong’s chest rises up and down in a staccato._ _

__He pauses, steadies his breathing._ _

__“Fuck you...”_ _

__Taeyong leaves just as quietly as he came._ _

__And Haechan should regret it._ _

__He doesn’t._ _


	21. Chenle: Mortal Trauma

Growing up, Chenle had been told “things that are for you, are for you,” and he could believe that, except, if there are things specifically _for you_ , why are you allowed to want, to desire, to _covet_ , other things? 

This, Chenle doesn’t understand. 

“You hungry?” 

Chenle shuffles through his backpack for nothing in particular, biding his time for no particular reason -- appreciates the white noise of loose paper and spare change cutting through the silence nonetheless. 

“...I could make you something to eat--some pork congee?...or I could order something? Korean? Thai? Pizza?...Whatever you want.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, feels the debris from the chips he’d eaten on the taxi ride over wedged between his teeth -- he’s pretty sure his breath smells like ‘Ranch” now, which he guesses is better than ‘vinegar’. 

“Or how about a bath?” he moves towards the window, lowers the blinds to block out some of the afternoon sun. “I ordered more of those eucalyptus salts you like…” he pitches his voice so it sounds like the harmless suggestion they both know it _isn’t_ , “...might help with the soreness.” Chenle picks imaginary lint off his sweater as he says it. Ignores the mini panic attack he’s having in his mind -- focuses on keeping his breathing steady and his heart-rate normal. 

He _hates_ Lucas for showing him this. 

Knew it’d break his heart. 

Chenle _hates_ himself for that. 

“ Sorry,” Mark’s voice is strained and raw as he glances at Chenle from over a pale, bony shoulder; his fringe falls into his eyes as the muted sun bathes his naked body, in all it’s taunt, lean glory, a celestial shade of gold. 

There’s an essence to Mark that Chenle would bottle it if he could -- is sure he’d get rich, and maybe then…

Maybe...

Well...

Let’s not get carried away. 

Chenle ignores the cherry red of Mark’s ass, and the defeated look on his face -- focuses instead on the gentle slope of Mark’s back, the clear cinch of his waist, his creamy, slender thighs. 

He’s annoyed -- this _is_ , and _isn’t_ any of his business all at once.

And Chenle’s not _shy_ of Mark’s nakedness -- has, in fact, seen Mark nude dozens of times now, in far more innocent circumstances; and he’s not _proud_ of this, but, he’s cataloged the memories in his mind, fantasized in the security of his home -- a rough, calloused hand, and his own vivid imagination enough to make his vision white-out and his body slump.

He _disgusts_ himself. 

He doesn’t try to change. 

“I’ll run the bath...it’s no problem.” Chenle nods a little too eagerly, curses himself as he pads over to the master bathroom, grabs Laura Mercier’s Creme Brûlée Honey Bath and the new eucalyptus salts from their place on the open shelving. Ignores the intense feeling of Mark watching him as he runs the tap; reminds himself it doesn’t _mean_ anything, even though he desperately wants it to. 

“What about food?” Chenle tries again, pretends that the thought of hanging around a little longer doesn’t get him giddy. Pathetic as it may be, he doesn’t want Mark to send him away, to not _need_ him. 

And Mark is up now, leaned leisurely against the wide door frame of Lucas’ grandiose master bathroom, his feet flat against the warm tile - lithe body draped in a robe entirely too big for his frame. It’s 100% cashmere from Hermes; Chenle would know, he’d bought it. 

“I’m fine...” it’s said without any real emotion; he tries to dissect and interpret it anyway; understands it’s fruitless, but Chenle has always loved giving maximum effort for minimal reward. 

“You haven’t eaten anything today…” he goes for casual and noncommittal -- realizes he’d never make it as an actor. He’s far from subtle that’s for sure. 

Mark rolls his eyes upwards, lets them fixate on the lighting in something just shy of paranoid. “Lucas says we’re going to dinner…” 

Right. 

He should remember that. Had, in-fact, called and _made_ the reservation. 

“Right, but…” Chenle wipes his wet hands across the faded denim of some old Levi’s he’d got from a second-hand shop. They remind him that he can’t afford to piss in Lucas' toilet. 

“...not till later tonight -- reservations for 7:30, it’s only 12:45 now -- more than enough time to get hungry again...but if you’re good, you’re good.” Chenle shrugs for that extra pop of nonchalance -- turns off the tap, a tight smile on his face as he manages to look in Mark’s general direction without actually making eye-contact. 

He’s not supposed to make eye-contact. 

“I’ll last.” Mark grabs at the belt of his robe, the top falling off his right shoulder -- Chenle wants to lick it. 

“Thanks though, for asking.” 

Chenle nods, takes quick, successive steps back towards the bedroom as Mark moves towards the bath; forces himself not to turn around at the sound of moving water. Not to be enticed by Mark’s general nakedness. 

He should leave. 

“How’s the temperature?” he calls over his shoulder, still a little desperate for interaction -- still young and optimistic. 

“Perfect. Thanks -- I appreciate it.” 

He doesn’t -- Chenle knows he doesn’t -- _can’t_. 

And Chenle doesn’t blame him for that -- won’t. 

Would probably be desperate to lick his wounds in private too, if he’d gotten what is so very obviously, spanked like an unruly child until his ass turned red. 

And Chenle _should_ be more understanding, he _should_ get it -- _does_ \-- and yet...

He really _should_ go. 

“I’m gonna head out.” He zips his backpack loudly, lets his weight fall heavy on each step he takes towards the door. Realizes that subconsciously, this is his childish way of trying to call Mark’s attention one last time -- jog his memory for an extra errand that Chenle needs to hang around for. 

“Hey,” Mark’s voice is gentle, lulls Chenle back to the doorway of the bath where he sees Mark draped over the edge of Lucas’ oversized clawfoot tub. Water droplets have beaded across his skin, they too, seemingly desperate to hang onto this moment where they are chosen and worthy. “Try to get some rest ok…” there’s a slight closed-lipped smile on Mark’s face as he says it; Chenle nods in return, curls his lips inward and makes a show of jostling his backpack. 

“Yeah, for sure.” 

He turns to leave, the bitter sting of defeat weighing heavily on his mind. 

“You never make eye contact with me…” Mark’s voice resonates through the wide expanse of Lucas' living room, the sun beams through the wall of windows, bathes the room in a sultry, late-afternoon glow. 

Mark’s seated in the plush loveseat to the right of the couch and facing away from the windows, the light plays with the angles of his face, creating editorial worthy shadows -- he’s ethereal. 

This is _lust_ and Chenle is _weak_. 

He bides his time with a few coughs, and sips of warm water, hides his hands behind fistfuls of popcorn; a mix of ‘Extra Butter’ and ‘Sea-Salt Caramel’ -- Chenle’s enjoying the Sea Salt Caramel a lot more than he thought he would. 

“I do…” he shoves a few caramelized kernels in his mouth to keep himself preoccupied. 

He’s prone to oversharing.

Chenle has only a few secrets in life, but he wants to keep them -- needs to. 

He feels _exposed_ ; starts to believe that somehow, someway, Mark _knows_ about Chenle’s ridiculous, unrequited want of him -- and it’s stupid because Chenle doesn’t really even _know_ Mark. 

“You don’t.” Mark’s off the loveseat now, his steps are slow and deliberate, light and soundless. 

Chenle’s eyes widen -- had he? 

“Why don’t you ever _look_ at me?” 

He breathes a silent sigh of relief, swallows the lump in his throat. 

Mark comes to stand directly in-front of him, his crotch perfectly level with Chenle’s gaze. 

Chenle would be lying if he said he didn’t look, didn’t stare. 

And Chenle can only _hope_ all this is intentional, even when he _knows_ it isn’t. Mark’s _not_ coming onto him, Mark’s _not_ flirting with him. 

Mark _doesn’t_ want to fuck him. 

He licks his lips in anticipation anyway, because he’s weak -- no better than any other man out there with the misfortune of being born; another poor sucker easily beguiled by a pretty face and a young body. 

Chenle has dreams about this. 

“I look at you all the time…” it’s a harsh, raspy whisper. 

It’s _Chenle_ who’s never seen -- he’ll put money on that. 

Mark moves to sit on the couch, folds his legs under him as he does, his loose muscle shirt teasing and taunting with each little movement. Chenle lets out a disbelieving laugh as Mark’s shorts slide down his hips just so, the divots of his pelvic bone peaking through. And Chenle can’t _believe_ this is his life -- in the words of the twitter youth, ‘he hates it here’. Would agree to be poor all over again, so long as he wasn’t tortured like _this_. 

He’s never understood Lucas more than does in this moment. 

Mark is _everything_. 

“Are you embarrassed of me?” Mark’s voice is firm, as always. He’s rarely unsure of himself, Chenle noted. Or, he never _seems_ unsure anyway. Chenle guesses there’s a difference. Doesn’t really know Mark well enough to discern either way. 

“Do you think I’m disgusting -- a hoe, _a slut_ , a whore, _a cumbucket_...I’ve heard that one’s popular lately.” 

Chenle’s throat goes dry as Mark pulls his knees up to his chin, cocks his head to the side as he waits. And he looks so beautiful, Chenle barely even registers all the filthy, _disgusting_ things he’s saying. 

“I don’t.” Chenle’s head shakes violently as he says it. 

“I could never think that…” he lowers his chin to his chest. “I wouldn’t ever think that about you.” 

Mark stretches out his hand, lets’ the gold band across his ring finger glimmer in the sunlight. 

Mark’s trying to tell him something; Chenle’s always struggled with reading between the lines. 

“What do you think will happen if I take this off?” Mark’s voice is barely a whisper; the sound vibrates through Chenle’s entire being -- he forces the sour nausea back down his throat -- actually tries to think on it. Lucas would be mad, sure, but… 

Chenle’s just not smart enough for this. 

“Normally he just has you buy things...but you didn’t buy this, did you? Lucas picked it out himself.” 

Mark stares at the ring, twists and turns it, moves it up and down along his slender finger, but never properly takes it off. 

“What do you think this ring means?” Mark looks at him again, Chenle can _feel_ Mark’s eyes darting across his face -- questioning, seeking. 

“He loves you…” Chenle’s throat constricts as he says it; he tugs at his dry hands, completely aware he sounds bitter and mocking instead of warm and supportive. 

Mark snorts at that, lets his body fall back against the arm of the couch, his legs splayed teasingly. 

Chenle can see just a peak of Mark's bare crotch -- but he’s not _looking_ or anything.

“Are you happy here…” it feels oddly invasive. 

Mark’s brows furrow. 

“Does it matter?” 

When Chenle walks into Lucas office he pretends he doesn’t see Mark’s feet under the desk -- pretends he doesn’t notice the gentle movements of Lucas' hands through Mark’s hair. 

“The copies you requested sir.” 

Lucas does this on purpose. 

“Just sit them down on the coffee table,” Lucas leans back in his chair, continues threading his hands through Mark’s hair. Chenle can hear the faint sound of sucking and slurping. 

“Fifteen minutes until your 2:30 sir.” Chenle keeps his head held high in meaningless solidarity. 

“Patch them through at 2:32” 

“Sir.” 

Chenle closes the door as he leaves. 

_“You hear that, you’ve got fifteen minutes or you’re under there for another hour.”_ Lucas whispers. 

Chenle pretends he doesn’t hear. 

Chenle doesn't consider himself introspective. He knows his strengths and weaknesses, sure, but he’s not someone who analyzes himself or really thinks about why he is, the way he is. Believes in the principles of nature vs nurture enough to know he’s probably some pavlovian manifestation of both. 

He sees everyone as being roughly the same in that way; responding, out of habit, in a manner that suited them; that enabled them to survive. 

And when Chenle thinks about Mark, wonders if his parents ever warned him that there were dangers for him beyond strangers with candy, or the boogey-man. If they told him, his own reflection was the enemy. 

Wonders if Mark would’ve understood or accepted it then -- wonders if he does now. 

Chenle thinks it’s an odd thing to understand, to conceptualize, and so regulates himself to simply _observing_. 

There’s a simultaneous euphoric and gnawing feeling when spying; the giddy glee of proving what you knew to be true or the soul-crushing realization that you’ve sought what you were seeking. 

Chenle keeps his head low, his blinking quiet, watches with bated breath as Lucas strips Mark naked, right there in a closed exhibition hall. Uses Mark’s own tie to bind his hand behind his back, pushes him up against the wall right next to Cui Bai’s famous Magpies and Hare. 

And Lucas can do this because Chenle will let him, because as much as Chenle knows it's a disgusting show of power, of dominance that Chenle's just as weak minded and weak willed as the rest of them; will simply clear the way, silent with eyes downcast. 

There are no heroes here -- he wonders if Mark sees _him_ as the villain instead. 

“You’re going to learn one of these days...” 

Chenle loves the sound of Lucas' voice; it's deep and dark and powerful; all the things Chenle's never been; can't even hope to be. 

And if Chenle were thinking straight he’d leave, but he’s not, and so he doesn’t. Let’s his feet become rooted in place and his eyes fixed on the sight before him. 

This is perverted -- he knows it -- is finding out in the moment, that he simply doesn’t care. Watches as Lucas pulls Mark's leg up by the knee, pushes his face into the wall and quickens the pace of his thrusts. The sound of skin slapping against skin and all the primal grunts and groans is both quiet and loud.

Even like this, Mark is beautiful. 

Chenle feels burdened by it. 

“Fuck.” Lucas grunts out, pushes away, leaves Mark sweating and panting against the wall. 

He unbinds Mark’s hands, grabs the tie to dab at his wet dick before tossing it on the ground. 

“Now what do you say…” Lucas tucks himself back in -- finger combs his hair back into place as he pints Mark with an expectant look. 

Mark pulls his pants back on, let’s his shirt hang open. “I’m sorry…” his voice is wispy and tired. He picks his tie up off the floor, stuffs it in his back pocket. 

Lucas kisses him on the mouth before heading back to the party. 

Mark stands there, beautiful and broken, wipes at his eyes with small, shaking hands. 

Chenle’s not religious. Couldn’t begin to tell you anything about the Bible -- knows it’s famous; knows it’s long. He can’t quote any passages from it, doesn’t have a favorite book or scripture; and he’s OK with that, doesn’t feel like he needs it, but can understand why others might take comfort in the concept. 

And it’s not that he doesn’t believe in religion, because he believes in _something_ , but he’s always been wary of making promises he knows he can’t keep. Being held to standards he knows he can’t uphold. When you’re poor, greed facilitates survival, to covet is the birth of determination. 

Mark is religious. 

“For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be glory forever. Amen.” 

This, Chenle understands. 

They speak of the same God.


	22. Johnny: Dirty Minded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think, that even though this is about Johnny, the obsessive need for control is the _real_ star.

Johnny doesn’t _do_ empathy. Had never gotten on particularly well with people who were overly emotional or a tad too sensitive. 

And sure, he could _make_ himself understand why a grown man was crying, could _maybe_ see the hurt you’d cause, calling a woman fat, even if she was, but those weren’t things that kept him up at night -- they weren’t things that moved him. 

None of this to say he didn’t _have_ feelings, because he _does_ , in fact, he cycles through them rapidly and vividly, chases the high that comes with the sensation of ‘emoting’. On principle, Johnny tries not to stew in any one emotion too long -- it happens anyway. His most common.. _feeling_ , is a delightful mix of anger, boredom and craving. He doesn’t waste time dissecting the in-and-outs of the different emotions; the order at which they come, the circumstances in which they arise. Just knows they exist, knows they are _there_. 

His problems, his… _issues_ , have always been simple: Johnny wants, what Johnny wants. 

It bothers him, when things he wants -- things he’s _wanted_ \-- don’t come quite quick enough. 

Doesn’t fathom that they might not come at all. 

And maybe Johnny is selfish, and maybe everyone else should understand. 

Johnny’s _tired_ of defending who he is -- _why_ he is. Would prefer it if everyone stopped trying to know him better than he knew himself. The task was _impossible_ \-- Johnny, as an entity, has always been too complex for the common man. It’s better for them to simply agree and then agree to _never_ disagree; _that_ should be the way of the world. _That’s_ a sentiment Johnny can get behind -- empathy he can muster for the devout. 

And Johnny’s never been wrong, _ever_. There were hundreds of millions of dollars that spoke to that fact. Taeyong would disagree, but Taeyong was pretty and vapid, didn’t really know any better -- _wouldn’t_ \-- until Johnny taught him. 

It’s a slow process. Taeyong is beautiful and stubborn -- knows he’s the golden trophy and lords it high over everyone’s head. Johnny can afford him; can pay twice his asking. Taeyong knows this. Johnny knows he knows -- knows he resents him for it. 

It won’t stop Johnny. 

Won’t even make him pause. 

There is a rush you get when walking into a room with a beautiful person by your side. It’s hard to put the feeling into words -- it’s a satisfied, gritty and smug sense of self that overtakes you, swallows you whole. 

Johnny basks in it. 

Loves the way the world congratulates him -- pats him on the back for a job well done. Nods appreciatively at his success. This is proof: he is worthy. The heavens have blessed him with a human trophy. There can be no prize greater and more meaningful than this. 

And Johnny tries not to be too righteous, too _obvious_ , but he can’t help the spike of pride that overtakes him when everyone stops and stares. And he had _earned_ this -- would have it, even if it didn’t _want_ to be had. At this point, with all his proven success and all his imaginary failures, he was _owed_ it. 

Doesn’t even need to make a show of it -- it simply _is_. 

He does it anyway, because he _can_. Lets his hand ghost Taeyong’s waist as the waiter takes them to their seats. Stands there, eyes downcast with obedient intent as Johnny glances over the embossed Menu. 

“We'll have the lunch tasting,” Johnny hands the menu to the waiter. “I’d also like a Jack and Coke.” He makes eye contact, lets his brows furrow. It’s a simple drink -- he hates when bartenders fuck it up trying to get fancy. “Yes Mr. Seo sir, of course..” he angles his body to the right, “and for you?” 

Taeyong looks up at him in all his striking glory, eyes delightfully dark and off-put. “I’ll take your best pinot noir…” his hands comb through his hair. 

The waiter nods, “but of course,” Taeyong’s head cocks slightly to the side; “...sir.” The waiter finishes with a slight bow. 

Taeyong’s eyes follow him as he leaves, vindicated and offended all at once. 

“You’re only getting one glass of that,” Johnny doesn’t even bother to look up at Taeyong as he says it -- can feel the glare either way. 

“Who are you, my mother?…” Taeyong grumbles, pulls out his compact to check his face. 

“No,” Johnny scrolls through emails on his phone, “I don’t let you do whatever you want…” 

Taeyong pauses at that, raises a brow, “what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” the snap of his compact jolting a few nearby diners. 

Johnny continues scrolling, “It means what I said…” 

Taeyong snorts, takes out his own phone to avoid the argument. 

“Not like it’s breaking the bank...it’s $200 a glass” Taeyong keeps his face neutral. Johnny doesn’t entertain it -- Taeyong drinks too much, it’s unbecoming. 

“Did you finish the menu for Lucas' welcome dinner? We need to get it to the chef at least 48 hours prior.” Johnny watches, face controlled, as Taeyong completes an annoyed inhale. 

“I haven’t,” he starts curtly, unfolds his napkin and places it in his lap as the waiter comes along with their first course. “Why don’t you get someone who has the _time_ to do it.” Taeyong grabs his chopsticks as he says it, eyes the grilled octopus with famished eyes. Johnny knows he’s absolutely starving, doesn’t know why Taeyong tortures himself -- it’s not going to make anything different, it’s not going to _change_ the inevitable. 

Johnny _is_ inevitable. 

“ _You_ have time.” Johnny takes a sip of his Jack and Coke, savors the smoothness; he’ll let the slight hint of orange zest slide. “All the time you spend arguing with Taeil, the menu could’ve been finished by now.” 

Taeyong rolls his eyes. “You owe Taeil money or something?” his face twists in disgust, “...get Ten to do it…” Taeyong takes a bite of grilled octopus, “he’s been to Hong Kong -- knows what Lucas might like more than I would.” 

Johnny pins him with bored eyes, “Ten’s busy.” 

“Doing _what?_ ” 

“Work.” 

Taeyong fills the silence by chugging the rest of his pinot noir. “How come when _Ten_ online shops during the workday it’s not a big deal, it counts as _work_ , but when _I_ do it, it’s suddenly _irresponsible_.” 

Johnny goes back to scrolling through his email “no one cares what _Ten_ does...what _you_ do matters.” 

Taeyong scoffs at that, his fingers wiggling with the urge to lift his glass in request for a second round -- Johnny can tell he’s itching to say something crass and scathing, but the moment has long passed. 

“Get _Taeil_ to do it, since apparently, _that’s_ your best fucking friend now…” 

Johnny makes a show of rolling his eyes, takes another sip of his jack and coke before cutting the alcohol with a sip of water. 

“Can’t you go _one_ week without arguing?” 

“Can’t he-”

“Seriously, why are you bothering about _Taeil?_...he’s _nobody_...why get yourself all worked up over nobody?” 

And Johnny _knows_ why, he _created_ the way. 

Still, Taeyong is stronger than he looks, Johnny refuses to give him an assist. 

Taeyong sighs, lets his head fall back, raises a bony arm to flag down the waiter -- demands a gin and tonic on the rocks. 

Johnny lets it slide. 

It’s pointless for Johnny to reminisce over _‘the era of Mark_ ’, again and again. 

He does so anyway, because it makes him feel alive. 

He remembers Mark in all his almost mechanical, celestial glory; Mark is young, almost _too_ young -- yet old enough all the same. 

Johnny _likes_ him -- more than he should, more than what’s _appropriate_. Feels the budding obsession taking root in his mind; it’s not a pleasant flower, it doesn’t bloom soft petals of pastel colors, it’s rough and thorny, its leaves scratchy like sandpaper. It’s a dangerous thing -- _unprofessional_ really, if Johnny could be bothered to care about that sort of thing. 

He tries to repress it anyway, not because it’s _wrong_ or _inappropriate_ , but because it’s _distracting_ \-- buries it, along with all the other hopes and dreams he pretends haven’t shattered, in the dark, damp recess of his mind. 

It works -- until it doesn’t. 

Mark is _beautiful_ in a way that intrigues him, conducts himself in a way reminiscent of Taeyong. 

Johnny has weaknesses. 

He wants to do dirty, sordid, and inexplicably _disgusting_ things to Mark -- _with_ Mark; lets his mind play cruel tricks on his interpretation of reality in the still of the night and wander off into filthy, perverted territory during the day. 

And Johnny doesn’t ruminate over the day dreams or what they could mean, why they exist---the _how_ of it. It doesn’t matter anyway -- they all end with Johnny _inside_ Mark. 

They aren’t nightmares. 

And Johnny imagines, playfully of course, that if he were a religious man, or a man, who at least _claimed_ to be religious, they might look upon him with pitying eyes, offer some dramatic form of prayer -- try to convince him they could pray away the nasty, perverse thoughts filling his mind with nothing but their own misinterpreted chants and shoddy, lifeless gospel. 

And Johnny would let them try. Rest his ass upon a cushioned seat, eyes closed as they formed a circle around him -- weeping and shaking over things Johnny could _pay_ to go away. And while they were busy with that, with their pseudo-saving, Johnny would imagine fucking Mark in the pews; Mark’s thin little legs and tiny little body shaking with all _power_ Johnny had to give him. The stained-glass windows of the church creating iridescent beads of sweat that slide slowly down the slope of Johnny’s back. 

A real baptism. 

Taeyong is there too, kneeled on the floor near Mark’s head, their faces not even an inch apart. Taeyong’s eyes are blown wide and darting around Mark’s face intently. His fingers softly move sweat soaked strands of hair from Mark’s face. Taeyong’s touch is different from Johnny’s own; it’s more familiar -- innocent but sensual. 

In his dream, Johnny holds Mark’s waist tighter. 

Taeyong presses a cheek to Mark’s face, looks over at Johnny with dead, still eyes, laces he and Mark’s fingers together. 

It makes Johnny jealous. 

But he can’t focus on that -- can’t get distracted by it. He’s close. Wills the Johnny of his dreams to soldier on. To ignore Taeyong… pretend he’s _ever_ been successful at that. 

Johnny’s legs wobble, the pew shakes. 

This is his offering. 

Biologically, they won’t ‘be fruitful and multiply’ but Johnny likes to believe it's the intention that will get him his wings. 

And Suddenly Taeyong’s hand is on his face, it’s cold and clammy, off-putting, _un-arousing_. 

“I’ll give you everything but this.” his voice is a sensual but pleading whisper in Johnny’s ear. 

Johnny knows what that means...concedes with the arrogance of a man whose won the war and every subsequent war that might follow. 

The prayers stop, the bibles close. 

Johnny stops imagining, stops reminiscing -- runs a cold shower and tries not to think Taeyong’s name too loudly. 

Johnny smokes after sex -- knows it’s cliche, but nothing really beats the smooth drag of an expensive cigarette after relieving the days tension. He exhales through his nose, lets the murky Seoul air and the distant whir of the night market give him purpose. 

“I’m leaving…” 

Johnny nods, ignores the dejected sigh he hears in the background. And he’s not _sorry_ about any of this. Had been very clear from the onset that it could be _only_ the way it is now. It’s not Johnny’s fault that Taeil wants more than Johnny will _ever_ be willing to give. 

Johnny doesn’t _want_ Taeil, never had -- _never_ would. Taeil had always just been something for Johnny to do...whether it was back in college or after a long day of stress inducing meetings. It was easy; _Taeil_ was easy, had always been -- Johnny could appreciate that now, like he had appreciated it then. 

Nothing has changed. When Johnny’s stressed or _bored_... _annoyed_...

“I can’t keep doing this you know…” Taeil speaks like it _means_ anything to Johnny -- it makes him want to laugh. Empty words. Forced thoughts. Taeil will always come back. Johnny is all he has. 

Johnny rolls his shoulders, dabs the ash off the end of his Sobranie Black & Gold. 

“You don’t have to come.” He takes a long drag for effect, exhales slowly; watches the light in Taeil’s eyes dim a little. It gives him a rush. 

“Fine...then I won’t.” 

Johnny takes another drag. Lets the midnight breeze cool him down as the smoke settles warmly across his face. 

Despite whatever k-drama bullshit Taeil’s imagining in his head, Johnny really, truly, actually, _does.not.care._ He can find another bed-warmer, could pay for one if he wanted to. Sure, it wouldn’t be as _convenient_ , as someone willing to drop _everything_ to come get you off, but it was better than Taeil thinking he had rights to be _uppity_ about anything. 

“..maybe you can get Taeyong to fuck you instead…” there’s a glint in Taeil’s eyes as he says it, like it's some mighty trump card he had hidden in the deck. Johnny wishes he’d put it back. 

Johnny grabs for his glass of water, takes a sip before placing it back down on the terrace’s dining table. It’s made of imported wood from the amazon rainforest. 

"I thought you said, you were leaving…” Johnny’s voice remains neutral. Curt. 

“I just meant…” Taeil fiddles with the zipper of his cheap down jacket. He’s nervous and sweaty, lips chapped and cracking. Johnny would feel sorry for him, if he could. Can’t imagine what life is like as such a weak, pathetic little man. 

“I really,” Johnny pauses, takes another sip of water, “...don’t care.” the glass clinks along the table top. Johnny can see the glaze of tears across Taeil's eyes. 

Johnny wonders how much effort it would take to snap Taeil's neck as if it were a twig. 

The imagery is kind of arousing. 

“So, I’m never going to be good enough for you?” 

Johnny almost laughs. Well duh. 

It’s the most crass thought he’s had all-day. 

And honestly, Johnny is doing Taeil a _favor_ , he just doesn’t realize it. The kind of safe, baseless sex is exactly the kind of thing Johnny can _only_ do with Taeil. If Taeil wants him to imagine he's fucking Taeyong...well, and Johnny knows this is awful, but Taeil might _not_ wake up after that... Johnny might get carried away, might actually _hurt_ him. It's better for _both_ of them if Johnny stays grounded in reality; he doesn't need the six o'clock news reporting live from the scene of non-consensual erotic asphyxiation all because Johnny got too carried away, too caught up in the moment. Too fixated on relishing the false sense of ownership; the fact that he could do this to Taeyong now, and no one would be there to save him. 

He forces himself to ignore how very aroused he is by the mere _thought_. 

“Taeil, go home.” 

He really is too kind. 

Ten is good at being personal. 

He’s nosey, which always helps. 

He’s also a know-it-all, which Johnny wouldn’t find utterly annoying if Ten wasn’t always wrong about everything. And because Ten is so often wrong in every way that matters, Johnny has never put much stock in Ten’s assertions -- has never seen the need to give Ten anymore consideration than what is absolutely necessary. 

And it’s wrong, he knows, especially when Ten takes Johnny’s words as Gospel. Believes in the things Johnny says -- forces himself to believe, even when he knows he shouldn’t, when he gains nothing from it. Ten trusts him…

Johnny is a habitual abuser.

He likes to think that sometimes he feels bad about it. 

He shouldn’t laugh. 

And Johnny doesn’t trust Ten enough to have consideration for him -- wants his loyalty all the same. 

And it’s weird really, the first time that Johnny truly understood Ten, was when he understood Ten hated Taeyong. 

Even better, it’s envy...alive and well. 

No different than Taeil or Yuta or any of the other followers Taeyong couldn’t be bothered to heal. 

Johnny doesn’t know what to make of it. How it came to be, or why; knows he can likely take credit for it either way. 

He Feels a surge of pride at the thought, wants to grab Ten in his arms, _hold_ him, ask him what brought him to this pivotal point in life. Listen to Ten wax poetic about all the good things Johnny is and was, all the horrible things Taeyong remained. 

Johnny doesn’t think of his mother too often; but remembers she called this serene whispers, lullaby’s. 

Johnny knows a trap when he sees one. 

It’s the casualness of which it’s said...it’s _supposed_ to be a seed of doubt planted in his mind. And Johnny is sure that on some lesser man, this, _whatever it is,_ would’ve worked; the problem here is that Johnny doesn’t need seeds of doubt -- not when he’s already planted whole forests. 

There is not a single person he trusts on this planet -- he even gives his own reflection a hard stare. 

And he knows an insinuation when he hears it...understands vaguely, that he’s supposed to have some negative and adverse reaction to the statement that’s just ‘slipped’ from Kun’s tongue. 

But Johnny doesn’t -- won’t, _can’t_. Because this is an easy fix, an easy solve. 

Johnny isn’t _simple_ like the rest of them, not only can he see the forest through the trees, he can map his way home. 

And Johnny can smell the burnt ends and raw middle of whatever half-baked scheme that has taken root in Kun’s feeble mind. Can only imagine the number of Johnny’s own _idiots_ who’ve taken some sort of cash bribe on the promise of a new life and better future. 

How dystopian. 

Johnny glances around the room, takes stock of the drunken mass of bodies grinding together on the dance floor, the waft of smoke like a layer of ozone over the room. Spots Jaehyun on the couch, shoving his tongue down Jungwoo’s throat while Taeyong keeps Doyoung preoccupied on the other side of the room. His interns are here too, dressed in just shy of _nothing_. Relying on the darkness of the night and the general feel good feeling of the party atmosphere to get them drinks without being carded. 

Jaemin is dressed like some kind of raunchy boy-scout; Haechan is a 'sexy' sailor - he might as well be nude; Mark an enticingly, scantily clothed angel. 

How fitting. 

Johnny is hard.

Doesn’t even notice Taeyong marching forward, a hard set glint in his eyes. 

In his dreams Taeyong comes to him with blazing eyes but submissive posture. Lets Johnny take care of him, even if that care involves pain. 

“Mark” Taeyong calls, his hand already stretched out like an overbearing mother hen, “Come here, we’re leaving…” 

And Mark is _obedient_ , he waves goodbye to his friends, doesn’t ask any questions, simply laces his fingers with Taeyong's as Doyoung holds onto Taeyong's other arm, desperate to be needed. 

Taeyong looks back at him over his shoulder as they leave, his eyes burning into Johnny’s soul. 

Johnny’s _still_ hard.

Fine.

Johnny knows how to solve problems. Johnny knows how to win wars. 

Taeyong will give Johnny what he wants -- even if Johnny has to break him in the process. 

He glances over at Kun, whose eyes are alight with some sense of smugness that Johnny craves to crush. 

Johnny has an idea. 

All he needs is a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not at me making a random, blink and you miss it, potential semi-reference with no real identifiable linkages to something from a prior chapter and being so proud of myself for it.
> 
> I'm going to address it again of course because I have to...but just want to see if people are equally as crazy as me and can link seemingly random dots together.


	23. Lucas: Game Design

_1.E4 -- Kings Pawn Game_

Seoul is a wonderfully stagnant kind of place; a little dry, a little predictable, at least when compared to the enchantment and rush of Hong Kong. And maybe it’s rude to say, but Seoul is every Asian city -- muted; lacking its own _real_ style, it’s own _real_ flair, a shadow of anything truly authentic. 

Seoul feels cold and dead; the neon lights, the soft hum of Kpop, the smell of sugar coated corn dogs and the wheat-like smell of Cass beer do nothing to detract from the base emptiness. Lucas can’t find _anything_ he’d qualify as being particularly captivating in and of itself. Even the food lacks excitement; sure, it’s _‘Korean’_ in name, and some of it still moves because it’s just _that_ fresh, but overall, it’s generic; every Asian food -- rice and soup and noodles. Lucas can eat pork marinated in spices and grilled over an open flame almost _anywhere_ in the world. 

He’s not impressed -- feels no magnetic pull, no urge or desire -- has never looked upon Seoul and thought, “here is where I want to be.” In fact, he feels caged in Seoul; like a bird with clipped wings or a horse with a bum leg. 

He didn’t use to feel like this. 

His father would say he’s being difficult and his mother would say it was his God-given right. 

He had always favored her for that very reason, and yet, growing up, compared to the giddy feeling he’d get whenever his father paid him a compliment or just some _attention_ , he never really cared if his mother was _proud_ of him; had never been moved to see her tears of joy or touched by her words of praise -- he supposes a therapist would scratch at his notebook and tell him, “there’s a lot to unpack there’ and Lucas would pretend to agree, bring a duffle bag full of made up mommy issues the next time he came. 

And Lucas supposes if Mark wants to be angry at someone -- _angry at anyone_ \-- he would point him in the direction of his mother; have Mark question dear Mrs. Wong, and ask her why she spoiled her son rotten -- why he was so entitled and arrogant. Why he got off on pain and called it pleasure. And then he’d tell Mark to take a good, long, and hard look at his _own_ reflection. Think about the crimes _he’d_ committed, admonish his own self, his own face. Accept the fact that there are no requiems for believers here on earth; force him to reconcile the choices he made that led them to where they are today. 

And Lucas knows that wrong, knows Mark hadn’t made any choices, because there hadn’t been any choices to make. Instead, he’d been given options that _masqueraded_ as a practice of free-will, but he’d never truly been given _choices_. 

Lucas would _never_ give him choices. With choices, comes the chance to make a wrong decision. 

Lucas snaps his hips forward in a desperate rhythm, the urge to own Mark in every way possible like an oil spill in his mind, tainting everything it touches, swallowing it up in a greedy, sinful need that Lucas let’s overtake him. He pulls out slightly before thrusting back in so hard that Mark slides up the bed, his toes curling and feet flexing as his eyes roll back into his head, back arching in pleasure.

“Please, I can’t. Lucas, I’m -- I can’t.” Mark’s voice is raw and rough, raspy and wet. 

He’s barely holding on. Lucas loves seeing him like this -- desperate and needy and accepting. 

Lucas continues his purposeful thrusting, spearing into Mark with the arrogance of a man thoroughly in charge. His hands grip Mark’s waist, holding him in place despite the force of his thrusts. Mark is shaking, writhing, _squirming_ ; body jerking and spasming as Lucas continues to poke and prod his ass with a dick that never seems to go soft. He lets his head fall back as he grips Mark by the shoulder and pulls an arm behind his back, steadying him as Lucas decides on a more direct angle, using a pillow to cant Mark’s hips up -- that gets Lucas a whimper, and a breathy _“oh, fuck”_ that _absolutely_ goes straight to his head. 

Lucas leans into the sex, realizes that he’s never going to get tired of manhandling Mark, of holding him down and making him take every inch of his dick. Lucas pistons his hips a little more forcefully, catalogs the sounds from below him and pinpoints the exact moment Mark finally gives up the fight, cums all over himself with a pained groan. And it’s all free fucking from here, Mark will let Lucas do as he wants, and not that Lucas wasn’t just taking what he’d wanted anyway, but the unconditional surrender was always a wonderful sight to behold. 

Lucas rewards him for it, releases Mark’s arm and loosens the grip on his waist -- lays across his back, sweat slicked skin cool against his burning chest. He kisses Mark’s temple to show him he’s pleased. Decides on slower, deeper thrust to carry him into orgasm. 

“You feel so good wrapped around my dick right now; I’m going fuck you all night and it still won’t be enough.” 

Lucas watches Mark pant under him, his eyes glassy and gaze far away. He pulls Mark up to sit in his lap, wraps a muscular arm around Mark’s thin waist as he positions himself so that his back is against the headboard. Slowly, Lucas pounds up into Mark, grips him by the hips and drags him up and down his length. Mark’s head lulls back as his body melts into Lucas’ his nails leaving indents in Lucas' forearms as he tries to simply _hang on_. 

Lucas has never seen something so awe-inspiring in his entire life. 

And maybe Seoul isn’t so interesting to Lucas anymore because he’s taken everything the city had to give. 

Haechan’s nothing like movies tell you a hired seductress is; he doesn’t speak in riddles or drop little hints with a glass of Merlot styled precariously in hand. He’s bold and aggressive, lacking any form of finesse. He’s _obvious_. The way he angles his body, lets his ‘boyfriend’ jeans continue to slip down his hips so that the band of his boxers show. And Lucas _would_ , he _would_ \-- but won’t -- is sure there’s some bro code about sloppy seconds he’d be violating if he did. 

Beyond that, there’s something to be said for sex that’s a little too easy -- and Haechan _would_ be _easy_. Lucas isn’t sure he even needs to ask at this point, could probably just whip his dick out and _go_. 

And where’s the fun in that? 

Haechan’s tongue darts out to lick at the chap of his lips as sweat pools under the pits of his arms. Lucas isn’t sure if Haechan’s _that_ drunk to where he’s sweating profusely -- just knows he’s been _drinking_ ; has knocked back three shots of tequila and a Whiskey Sour in the half-hour since Lucas had arrived at the bar. 

“I’m a pretty-fucking-good lay too you know,” Haechan pushes his fringe out of his face, pulls at his shirt so that the collarbones show -- and Lucas doesn’t doubt that he is -- would never doubt something that’s seemingly so apparent. 

Haechan throws back another shot, raises two fingers at the bartender to request two more “...you could pretend,” Haechan drags a finger down the column of buttons on Lucas shirt, a Fall 2018 Tom Ford, “I don’t mind... “ his voice trails off, the musk of tequila hangs on the words. 

Lucas is sure he wouldn’t. Doesn’t think Haechan would mind much of anything so long as he was getting attention and being validated -- so long as he feels like he’s _winning_ against Mark. Which is stupid, because of course Haechan will win, a hollow, lifeless win that will do absolutely _nothing_ for him, but a win nonetheless. Lucas is invested in Mark losing far too much.

And Lucas knows that’s not the point. Haechan wants to fuck him _just because_. And Lucas can understand that -- is _used to it_. 

He has standards. 

“It’ll be fun,” Haechan stands up, moves to stand right in-front of him, wraps his arms around Lucas neck -- kisses his ear. 

“I’ll even role-play for you...you want a passive little bitch who’ll just lay there,” Haechan laughs a bit as he says it, “I can be that for you…” 

Lucas raises a brow. 

Well, it’s not fun if they are _already_ passive you see...

Haechan’s arms tighten around his neck as he drops himself into Lucas lap, grinding up against him slowly. 

Lucas is only human. 

“Hmmm? What do you say big guy?” Haechan leans down to suckle at the skin of Lucas' neck. 

Lucas pulls him away, slower than he should. 

“It’ll be good,” Haechan purrs. 

Lucas _could_. 

“I won’t even get mad if you call out his name…” Haechan’s face is set in a condescending pout. 

Lucas understands. 

“Is that what Johnny did?” he keeps his face neutral. 

A smirk spreads its way across Haechan’s face, “does,” he clicks his tongue as he says it, “that’s what Johnny _does_.” 

When Lucas strips Mark down in the ‘Employee’s Only’ stairwell he does so without remorse. He can’t be moved by Mark’s misty eyes and silent pleas. Maybe someone kinder, someone with even an ounce of empathy would have some compassion, some consideration for Mark’s sense of dignity -- Lucas isn’t that person, doesn’t know if that person exists; would be surprised if that type of person _could_ exist in reality, outside of dreams. 

And Mark’s slightly arrogant in that way Taeyong taught him to be; he holds his head high, shakes his fringe out of his eyes and looks at Lucas as if he _doesn’t believe him_. Lucas understands that to some degree -- he can’t believe himself either sometimes; but not in the way Mark’s thinking -- it’s something they’ll have to work on. 

He presses Mark in all his naked glory against the wall, reaches around Mark’s thin waist to grab at his member, pulls his hand up and down Mark’s length, _slowly_. Mark gasps, grinds his hips forwards just a bit before Lucas presses a large hand flat against his lower back to keep him still. 

“Don’t.” 

Lucas lets it echo through the stairwell as Mark’s arms and legs shake. 

And Lucas understands to some small degree, that this is _cruel_ \-- but understanding doesn’t cause him to think it over or re-consider; it doesn’t _stop_ him from continuing on; there is a small, insignificant part of him that wonders what that means. 

He soldiers on without the answers -- tells himself that it’s something he must do. Ignores the reality that it’s simply the sadist in him, the control freak, the _possessor_. 

Or maybe it’s both. 

And he doesn’t even know where the sudden urge came from, just knows it’s here, knows he needs to do _something_ about it. And it isn’t just that Lucas is _hard_ and it’s not _just_ a matter of sex. It’s a matter of who, what, when, where _and_ why. And all of these things are true and untrue. And all of these things lead back to _Mark_. 

Lucas isn’t trying to _prove_ anything here, simply establishing what _is_. 

And Mark’s young and naive and pretty. He thinks ‘what is’ is what he knows, but these are not things that Lucas has taught him, and thus, they are things he should not know. 

“I wasn’t going to, you know…” Mark’s voice is a resigned whisper, “ I _really_ wasn’t -- I wouldn’t...” 

“Shut-up.” Lucas unzips himself. 

And it’s not that he doesn’t _believe_ him, but he doesn’t _trust_ him. And Lucas understands that relationships are supposed to be built on trust, but this _isn’t_ a relationship; Lucas knows this, knows Mark knows it too. And so the rules that govern partnerships having no weight with them. 

“People will hear,” Mark’s voice is breathy and low. 

Lucas lines himself up. “That’s their problem.” 

He reaches around to grab at Mark’s throat. 

He _needs_ Mark to understand. 

And maybe it’s cruel, subjecting Mark to this form of classist humiliation, but it’s efficient, it’s _effective_. 

“You’re late.” Johnny’s voice is cold and hard, his hands folded gently in his lap. 

Taeyong stands, posed at the doorway, in his definition of ‘professional attire’ which means he’s squeezed into a pair of skin-tight slacks and a cropped button-up, his hands covered in expensive rings and full of overpriced coffee and designer shopping bags. 

“I was busy,” Taeyong huffs out, pulls his sunglasses to the top of his head, the gold of the ‘Bvlgari’ logo complimented perfectly against the soft pink of his hair. 

“Shopping?” Lucas chimes in, because he wants to, because he _can_. 

Taeyong snorts at that, but doesn’t necessarily argue -- Lucas isn’t any of the other lessers he can just boss around, and Johnny won’t rush to defend him here. 

“Yeah well,” Taeyong brushes a bit of his fringe out of his eye; let's it hang in the air -- it’s his own way of conceding, Lucas knows Taeyong well enough to understand. 

“Don’t let it happen again.” Johnny motions for Taeyong to sit, and like a school-girl who’s just been scolded, he quick-steps to his seat, eyes disbelieving and _hurt_. A Johnny that doesn’t cave is a Johnny that Taeyong’s not used to -- a Johnny that Taeyong doesn’t understand. Lucas likes to give himself credit for that. 

It’s emotionally manipulative really; Johnny hurts Taeyong, and then makes him feel better -- pats his head and strokes his back after embarrassing him in front of class. “I only do it because I love you;” and Taeyong doesn’t necessarily believe in the words Johnny speaks, but he believes in Johnny, and that’s what's most important -- that’s what _matters_. 

Johnny has done a good job -- Lucas applauds him. 

“What’s this all about anyways?” Taeyong is defensive and accusatory, eyes narrowing and brows furrowing; he’s beautiful -- Lucas will give him that.

“Taeil sees discrepancies in the cc accounts” Lucas kicks things off, keeps his hands tucked into his pockets as he stands at the far side of the room. 

Taeyong scoffs, eyes rolling dramatically towards the ceiling as he dramatically twirls a wrist, the diamonds on his cuban link catching in the light. “Well, you know, that’s Johnny’s fault -- I wouldn’t trust Ten with _monopoly money_ so…” 

“It’s _not_ Ten.” Johnny taps his fingers against the desk, fixes Taeyong with a haughty look. 

“You _always_ defend-- so you’re saying it’s _me_ ,” Taeyong boldly crosses his arms, pretends like there isn’t $20,000 worth of clothes and accessories laying at his feet. And Lucas _knows_ that’s all _Johnny’s_ money, but that’s beside the point. 

“Taeil says it’s from _your_ accounts.” Lucas comes out swinging; his own brand of guerrilla warfare set in motion -- knows Taeyong won’t see it for the distraction it is. 

And how could he? Blinded by the white-hot hatred Johnny has stoked for _years_. The underlying sense of competition when Taeyong had been told he stood alone. Taeyong _hates_ Taeil, and it’s all he can focus on right now. 

Bishop to King 7. 

Lucas watches with rapt attention as the emotion sets across Taeyong’s face. “ _Taeil_ , said that? What the _fuck_ would he know?” 

Johnny keeps his gaze level -- “We got an anonymous tip that someone was using one of the company cards inappropriately -- from there we asked Taeil to start digging.” 

“He’s checked every account in the organization and the discrepancies lie in the Sales & Marketing team’s expense reports.” Lucas finishes. 

Taeyong‘s lips purse, a brow raised, “So I’m asking you _again_ , are you accusing _me_ of misappropriating funds or no?” 

“Is it you?” Lucas tries not to laugh as he says it. Taeyong’s clever enough to catch on if he does. 

Taeyong makes a face, his eyes darting to Johnny for backup. 

Lucas cuts him off. 

“Listen Taeyong, this is serious, the current board wants answers and before I agree to invest in Muse:Seoul _and_ before I agree to a role as standing Board Chair and Director, I want this figured out.” 

Johnny nods in solidarity. 

“We’re going to make some staffing changes -- see if we can get to the bottom of this by cutting off access…” Johnny keeps his face neutral. 

Taeyong stands, all versions of indignant and offended -- “Fine, do what you will.” 

Check-mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say I can't believe this story has over 3000 views. Thanks so much for all your kind words and kudos and amazing comments! I appreciate it so much! I'm glad you're enjoying and I hope you'll keep enjoying as we start to wrap things up! ❤️


	24. Ten: Fool

“So, what’s Johnny on your ass about now?” Ten takes a sip of his Chardonnay, tries to ignore that it’s 9:30am and he’s drinking on an empty stomach -- he’s not 20 anymore where he can just push through day-drinking without consequence. Nowadays he has to pace himself. He’s _still_ going to get shit-faced and black out, _that_ hasn’t changed. But it’ll happen a little closer to midnight than 2am -- by God, he misses being young. 

He glances over at Taeyong, who throws back his _third_ glass of Chardonnay -- moves towards the bottle of Bourbon, a slight manic gleam in his eyes that Ten would find unnerving in any other circumstance. His lids are low and heavy over his eyes, his face soft and open -- a rarity these days. Ten had missed it. Had always preferred the colder, softer Taeyong to the warmer, harder version of himself he’d introduced them to. 

And Ten guesses some overpaid shrink would ask him when he noticed the change, and because Ten is a liar, he’d say he can’t remember; because Ten is an actor he’d give his best contemplative sigh, roll his head to the side at exactly the right moment and look directly into the shrinks cold dead eyes. 

The shrink would believe him and Ten would tip him for a job well done. 

_“Taeil,”_ Taeyong starts, his perfectly shaped nose already up in the air, “ _allegedly_ , found discrepancies in _my_ CC accounts,” Taeyong runs a hand through his hair, his voice a sensual mix of apprehension, disbelief and mocking as he pours two fingers worth of Bourbon, “so of course _Lucas_ is being a little shit about it…threatening Johnny by claiming he’s withholding investment which we all know is _bullshit_ …” 

Ten perks up, squirms a little in his seat at the good news. 

“Johnny said that?” He tries not to sound too excited, keeps his tone neutral and fixes his gaze into something irritated. 

Taeyong levels him with an annoyed glance anyways, the mere question enough to set him off -- and he doesn’t _trust_ Ten anyways -- never had. 

And he guesses that’s partly his own fault, but Ten doesn’t like having a guilty conscience and so wills the thought away; hyper focuses on Johnny because that’s what he knows, that’s what he’s _good at._

“Well obviously he didn’t _say it_ ” Taeyong’s voice is bitter and gruff, “but it’s _Lucas_ , he never misses an opportunity to throw his money and influence around.” 

Ten nods at that, pretends he didn’t hear Taeyong try to throw _him_ under the bus with painted on slacks and a midriff baring button-up to convince Johnny they could just _fuck_ all their issues away. 

Taeyong uses his influence too -- but sex is free; Johnny can get it anywhere. 

Taeyong knows this, knows that’s not what Johnny _really_ wants from him, tries it anyways because he’s used to Johnny giving him what he wants for free. 

“Well,” Ten ignores his own hurt, swallows down the last of his Chardonnay, “what’s the play?” 

Taeyong snorts, gulps down two fingers worth of Bourbon all at once. 

“I’m not playing these games with Johnny,” Taeyong’s gaze is fierce and sharp. 

Ten nods again, slouches against the plush couch in Taeyong’s office. 

“Can’t lose if you don’t play.” Ten adds on, just to be conversational. 

Taeyong nods at that. Pours another two fingers; doesn’t need to be told the obvious. 

You can’t win either. 

Ten’s not entirely sure what his life’s purpose is, doesn’t know if there is any _real_ meaning to life outside of the obvious biological abilities such as birth and death. 

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t try to make the most of his time. 

And maybe he does it in irresponsible ways, with the drinking and the drugs and the unprotected sex, but he _does it_ , which is more than most can say; would rather regret the things he did over the things he didn’t any day of the week. 

And the consequences of that don’t really phase him -- don’t really bother him. In fact, if he absolutely _had_ to pick a component of the forced fate of ‘life’ that kept him up at night, it was the things he _couldn’t_ do that bothered him most. 

And they weren’t the silly things people jumped to like the ability to fly or teleport or _read minds_ , his regrets are a little more primal, a little more _physical_. 

He couldn’t _make_ someone want him. He’d tried, he’d failed.

It hurt, but Ten could move past that, would have too -- _had_. 

Doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

And Ten’s selfish in that way that almost everyone is, he wants what he wants. It’s nothing to do with love, nothing to do with _the heart_ and everything to do with lust and greed. 

The sins people kill and are killed over. 

Ten is not religious. 

Kun isn’t either. 

It makes things simple -- makes them harder too. And Ten doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t like feeling used, and yet, here he is, trying to be a mastermind and yet feeling more and more like a pawn. 

Jaehyun exhales in his face, Ten can feel the smoke drying out his skin as it brushes against his cheeks. He ignores the slight watering of his eyes. It could be anything, though he guesses it’s shame. 

“How did I _not_ know you were fucking _Kun?_ ” Jaehyun’s voice is raspy and dry, hurt and accusatory. Ten shrugs, lights his own cigarette just to feel involved. “It’s not like we’re _dating_ or anything.” 

Excuses. Ten has always been full of them. 

Jaehyun rolls his eyes, takes a sip of his beer. “What’s Kun’s end-game?” 

Ten tenses, a defensive _embarrassed_ sort of feeling overtaking him. 

He doesn’t know. He’d _never_ known. 

Jaehyun doesn’t need to know that. 

“Kun’s not some evil mastermind you know,” Ten exhales through his nose, fingers combing through his fringe. 

Jaehyun pins him with bored eyes and a condescending smile. “The sex must be just, fucking _fabulous_ if you’re defending him,”

Ten snorts at that, lets his eyes roll dramatically up to the ceiling. “Is that why you think Doyoung sticks around? Cause you long-dick him?” 

Jaehyun laughs, his dimples breaking the otherwise taunt skin of his face. “You jealous?” He teases, gets up to grab another beer. 

Ten makes a face he knows Jaehyun can see, “A little, yeah…” 

It’s Jaehyun’s turn to snort, “aw, poor baby,” he calls from the kitchen. Ten feels himself chuckle, “just saying, you know...I suck a mean dick too,” Ten takes a sip of beer, ignores the warmness. “I could be the best sex you’ve ever had.” 

Ten hears Jaehyun scoff, a delicate little sound that makes him want to choke on his own tongue. 

“Big words...imagine if we’d had this talk _before_ I found out you were fucking Kun...how does that even work anyways -- what? During board meetings or something?” 

Ten twists his mouth to the side, ignores the bold loyalty Jaehyun has to Johnny and the pain it causes him -- decides he’s _not_ going to share, it’s not something he _needs_ to share, not something he _wants_ to share. 

“Where’s Doyoung by the way,” he snuffs out his cigarette against the Hermes ash-try, tries to distract from the bitter feel of failure slithering through the open doors of his mind. 

“Buying shit to make for dinner -- you’re staying right?” 

Ten nods. 

“I can tell he was here, your place is _clean_ for once.” 

“He’s been staying the night much more often,” there’s just the tiniest hint of pride in Jaehyun's voice “he’s into cleaning and cooking but he can’t cook in a messy kitchen so yeah,” Jaehyun shrugs, flips through the channels before he lands on BBC World, lets news of an American insider trading scandal act as their white noise, “the place has been pretty _organized_ lately.” 

“You and _Kun_ thinking of moving in together?” he chuckles as he chugs the rest of his beer, places the bottle, coaster-less onto the coffee table -- a mess _Doyoung_ will clean up. 

“Ha.” Ten shoves Jaehyun lightly as he says it, laughs as a smile splits across his face. “We’re _honestly_ just fucking…” and surprisingly he feels _good_ saying that. 

“You gotta be careful,” Jaehyun turns, looks at him seriously, “people get attached…” 

Ten meets his gaze to the sound of the keypad beeping and the door clicking open. 

“Not attached -- entitled.” 

Jaemin’s studio is a bare, vanity laden ode to self. 

The stark emptiness speaks to Ten; the only signs of human occupancy are the industrial rack of overpriced clothes, a fridge containing two gala apples, a wedge of Havarti cheese and a bottle of Belvedere. 

Ten loves it. It’s the art of not caring personified, or at least, Ten guesses it is -- had never quite mastered ‘not caring’ -- he’d always been eager to please, to comply. 

“So, sushi, Thai or Chinese?” Jaemin lays the takeout menus in front of him, a sort of curious look on his face. 

Ten shrugs, glances at the profile of his shadow and tries to fall in love with himself. Taeyong, Mark and Jaemin always made it look so easy. 

“Let’s do pizza.” 

Jaemin rolls his eyes, pulls out the menu to ‘Pizza Palooza’ and tells Ten ‘have at it’. 

Ten does, orders one pepperoni pizza, one cheese pizza, one jalapeño pizza and a bottle of lemon flavored soda. 

“Should be here in half an hour,” he calls over his shoulder, at Jaemin who's laid across his futon, limbs spread wide in contemplation. 

Ten walks over to him slowly, eyes taking in the span of practiced nonchalance that goes by the name: Jaemin.

He hovers over him for a bit until his feet start to cramp. 

“Scoot over, and tell me what you’re packing for Crete.” 

Jaemin huffs but gets up anyways, makes his way to the rack of designer clothes he calls a wardrobe. 

“So, I’ve got a couple Loro Piana I’m taking, but I’m thinking of getting one or two Tommy Bahama style shirts for fun...I imagine I need one or two dinner outfits, but I don’t want to bring anything too formal you know? Don’t want to need socks.” 

Ten nods at that, takes out his phone to scroll while Jaemin’s talking. Realizes he hadn’t really cared in the first place -- and maybe that’s jealousy, but Ten’s not invested enough to care. 

“At least you’re going on vacation -- getting fucked in Crete sounds like 100% of everything I wish I was doing right now.” Ten makes small talk, figures it hides the growing resentment he feels at not having ever been a young trophy boy. He’d been too educated, too polished. He’d decided to care about his future and in the midst of getting a masters degree and saving up for a down-payment, he’d gone and fucked himself over -- he’ll never, _ever_ , forgive himself for that. 

Jaemin snorts, runs a hand through his plush looking hair -- he uses Christophe Robin, Ten had introduced him to the brand a year ago. 

“Reminds me...should I pack condoms?” Jaemin folds his arms and squints at his suitcase, a shiny Rimowa he’d gotten from an ex-boyfriend. 

Ten huffs in the back of his throat as knocking starts at the door. “Well, you know, I always prefer barebacking, but if you’re being safe or whatever,” he pushes his hair back, “then just get the super-thin ones….or get tested before you go so you can go raw...honestly, that would be my preference” Ten slips off the futon and towards the door. 

“I wonder if he’s packing any…” 

He hands over $4 in tip and closes the door. 

“Who cares if he is...the most important thing is staying in control.” 

“Mark would say it’d let you know his _intentions_.” 

Ten rolls his eyes, “yeah well, Mark thought Lucas was well-intentioned even af- ... and look at him now, a sex slave.” 

He hears Jaemin gasp, shoos it away with his free hand. 

“What? Too honest?” 

“Don’t call him a sex slave...sounds demeaning.” 

“Ok...so...indentured sexual servant…” 

Jaemin fixes him with a look.

“ _What?_ ” Ten defensively puts the pizzas down onto the -- well he _guesses_ it counts as a dining table; “I’m not really good with titling -- that’s your department.” 

“Who told Johnny about them? Seriously.” Jaemin is leaned across the table, brows furrowed. 

Ten takes a shallow breath, blows the air out of his nose. 

“Kun.” 

Ten won’t deny things that are seemingly obvious about himself. Has never been one to deny or defy who he is. Honesty comes _natural_ to him in a way that might scare others. Unlike Taeyong and Mark and Doyoung, he’s never been afraid of the truth. 

Doesn’t mean he can't wish he were. 

Wonders if the ability to be hurt by the reality of the world is what made men see them as _worthy_. 

They try and they fail, but they _believe_.

Ten wonders if he should believe -- if he _can_ at this point. 

And he knows Mark lived in that way, nice but not necessarily _kind_ , good but not necessarily _honest_ , a leader who had been forced into the position; begged by the others to lead because they needed someone to follow -- and so he had, and then they _hated_ him for it. 

It’s a rogue concept. 

Ten has always been assured and comfortable in of himself -- he’s never had bouts of doubt or worry. He’s only ever known fear and anger, the jealousy that comes with being usurped. It’s even worse when your new savior never wanted to be _better_ in the first place, simply _was_. 

And though Ten himself hated Taeil and Haechan and Jungwoo and every bit of shallow, contrived attention they thrived on -- _needed_ to survive -- he couldn’t count himself as being _different_ in any significant way. 

He was equally, shallowly jealous and _hurt_ by _them_. Made do with the fact that someone, _Kun_ , found him _special_ even if Johnny didn’t --wouldn’t -- couldn’t. 

Knows it’s not the same, has never -- would never -- pretend it was. 

But Tens failures _aren’t_ his own, they are failures foisted onto him merely by the act of _being_. His _existence_ is the trial, his persona is the error. 

And that doesn’t mean he can’t be _angry_ about it, doesn’t mean he doesn’t sit and wallow in it, even if he can be _honest_. 

Because honesty isn’t a virtue -- it’s a skill, only useful when it’s useful.

And so when Haechan comes to him, red faced and solemn, the pain of rejection bright behind his dead eyes, Ten holds him, soothes him, ignores the stench of something dark and harmful in the air. 

“Well,” Ten pushes down the bile rising in his throat, “it’ll all be over soon…” 

He can feel Haechan smile against him. 

“Right -- and then we’ll be free.” 

Ten nods uncertainty building in his chest. 

He’s been playing this game all wrong. 

“Can’t win if you don’t play right?” 

Haechan smiles, pulls a blunt from his back pocket. 

They don’t need to be told the obvious. 

You can’t lose either. 

It plays on a loop in his mind at night. Disturbs his sleep -- prevents him from dreaming. 

And it’s not necessarily a nightmare because Ten doesn’t believe in those, but it makes him feel strange -- feel _wrong_.

And it’s simple really -- but just because he doesn’t recall having bad intentions doesn’t mean he hadn’t had them. 

He distinctly recalls waiting for Taeyong to be away.

_“Mark, come here, let me introduce you to Lucas Wong, President and CEO of Paint By Wong; they are a vital partner for us in this industry - -we’re looking to do some joint exhibitions with them”_

_Mark nods, tucks his hair behind his ears in the gentle way he always did._

_“Nice to meet you sir,” he keeps his head slightly down, the slightest smile on his face._

_Jungwoo appears, a bright pink drink between clumsy fingers. Haechan rescues it from him, eyes set, dark and determined._

_Ten stiffens -- feels compelled to watch the clock._

_“MARK!” Haechan is loud and childish, laughing and overacting. Casually, inconspicuously, he slides the glass into Mark’s hands._

_Ten suddenly needs to leave._

Ten wakes violently -- head pounding and heart racing, his vision spotty and just slightly to bright. He breathes slowly-- in and out. Thinks of affirmations and phrases, eventually calms himself steady with a mantra he'd taken from Johnny: “you can’t save everyone.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is doing well! It's been a while! Assignments have been kicking my butt!


	25. Taeil: Depth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy y'all! It's Round 3!! Hope you guys enjoy this round of POVs. We're starting with Taeil. 
> 
> Hope you guys had a great Holiday Season. Looking forward to the New Year! Stay Safe!

Taeil needs a new job, and by ‘new’ he means, a job that pays twice the salary as his current, and where he can work remotely on the pristine beaches of Tahiti with no sort of real accountability or responsibility -- oh and his hours are 8:00-8:30AM. Though, he’ll take a ₩5,000,000 increase and a telework day as consolation, if the whole, ‘beach in Tahiti’ thing ends up being a deal breaker...

And It’s not _necessarily_ Johnny or Taeyong or Mark or even _Ten_ that makes him want to leave; it’s the whole of them and _nothing to do with them_ all at once. Taeil’s not sure what he means by that really, or how he _should_ be looking at it, or thinking about it, just knows he’s wholly _unsatisfied_ with things as they are now, and, barring some small grace like a zombie apocalypse or the end of the world, are likely to be in the future. 

But Taeil’s not a _pusher_ , not a _deal-maker_ \-- he’s just _there_ , a lowly subject, called to sing and dance when it fits their fancy. Laughed at and ridiculed whether he’s good or bad. 

He’s entertainment. For free. 

Taeil’s tired of being tired. Tired of being bitter too. 

Tired of violating himself in the hopes that he’ll get a fraction of the attention and affection he gives in return. 

Maybe it’s guilt. 

Maybe it’s hurt. 

He’s not really sure, doesn’t really care either. Just knows there’s a throbbing in his chest where there shouldn’t be and a paleness to his skin that makes him look sick -- and it’s not like Taeil prides himself on his _looks_ necessarily; he’s never been like Taeyong or Ten or Mark or even Jaemin, who coasted along in life by hitting all the right markers of ‘hot and dumb’ for the titans of industry. 

Taeil had always seen himself as a little too mousey, a little too generic in comparison. He decidedly _wasn’t_ barely legal fuck-bait and silly enough to take just about _anything_ he was given -- he wasn’t desperate; well, not _that_ desperate anyway. 

Visually, outside of his wholly _average_ looks, he wasn’t _thin_ either, meaning he couldn’t count his ribs through his skin, or fit his hands around his waist. It would be impossible for him; he ate consistently and to his heart's content -- didn’t ever feel the urge to regurgitate his lunch _just because_. Had never worried about fitting into the jeans he wore in high-school at his now grown age, or worried about how his abs would look in a crop-top; had never worried that he’d be _too heavy_ to be manhandled against a wall or across a conference table for a quickie in the middle of the day. 

And Taeil _loathes_ to say he’s too smart. Can’t pretend he isn’t blinded by shiny things and a penthouse in the sky, but is proud enough to say you couldn’t pay him in diamond encrusted cufflinks and a black credit card either. 

Taeil is a lot of things, a _whore_ isn’t one of them, though it’s not to say he couldn’t--can’t-- be _bought_. 

It’s an odd thing really, wanting to stand equally at someone’s side and being willing to fight for it. Losing regardless of the effort and being told to get over it. Be willing to be seen and not heard, or do neither. 

And Taeil wipes away his tears as he thinks about it. 

Self-respect is expensive. 

Dignity is cheap. 

_As you do unto others._

Taeil thinks it’s the dumbest phrase that gets parroted about to the masses, it’s for the simple minded, the gullible, the _weak_. No one worth anything lives by the phrase. 

Knives are your friend. People are food. 

Taeil had been one of those faceless nameless losers in the crowd; his mass-produced sense of morality performative and silly. He’s like all the other stepping stones with whom the rich lay their foundation, he turns a blind eye and the other cheek all at once, like a fool. 

And maybe that’s because he’d been young and dumb and what he _thought_ was in love; had spent the better part of sophomore year thinking about what _could_ be, what _might_ be; ignoring what _wasn’t_ ; so long as he could keep Johnny entertained -- and well, so much for that. 

Taeil doesn't know what to do, _or how to do it_. Doesn’t know what Johnny wants or _needs_ and all he’s got to show for himself is a trash-bin full of used condoms and a sore jaw. 

And then there is Taeyong, for whom Taeil carries the burden, dutiful and pathetic, blinded by his beauty and pretend care. 

They are _friends_ Taeil thinks, bitterly, his arms weak and his hands tired. 

Taeyong turns towards him, mouth downturned and eyes bright, naked as the day he was born, his skin a light pink from the heat, from the effort. And Taeyong doesn’t even _see_ him really, doesn’t even know he’s there. He bounces himself, up and down and around, steadies himself with his hands on Johnny’s thighs. 

It’s a new emotion that settles into place, acidic and fiery through his being. 

His counselor calls it hate, calls it jealousy -- Taeil has a better word: betrayal. 

Taeyong comes to him the next day, his eyes bright, body tired, a smile plastered across his perfect face. 

He runs a hand through his hair, lets’ the perfectly toned chestnut brown flutter slightly in the fall breeze -- he smells like acorns and leaves. 

Taeil wants to rip his throat out. 

“We’re friends, right?” Taeyong starts, his voice is deeper than his face implies, there’s a huskiness to it that draws Taeil in. 

He nods automatically -- there is a right answer. 

Taeyong smiles, and Taeil can see the light coloring of the green veins beneath his skin -- it makes him imagine. 

“Well, that’s what Haechan said…” Yuta twirls a limp fry around as he says it, the corner of his mouth smeared with the house ranch. 

Taeil can only breathe really, hasn’t mastered the basics of humanity beyond that. 

And he should be upset about all of this, but isn’t. Understands Haechan more than he understands himself. 

“Johnny’s fucking disgusting, they’re both-” 

“Legal.” Yuta cuts Jungwoo off, grabs at his burger with both hands, Taeil watches a tomato slip out and out to the plate soundlessly, Yuta grabs it with his thumb and forefinger, throws it into his mouth and chews silently. 

Jungwoo rolls his eyes, “just barely…” he murmurs. Taeil watches him with a sense of curiosity; watches his eyes get glassy and his gaze grow distant. 

“Haechan’s an idiot,” Jungwoo stares through Taeil as he says it; Taeil doesn’t entertain it, sits stoic in his seat. Again, he understands. 

“Yeah well,” Yuta swallows down his bite of burger, “it’s decidedly not stupid to fuck your boss if you’re going to get something out of it,” he takes a quick sip of his off-brand coke, “It is stupid though, if they’re imagining fucking _someone else_ ,” he fiddles his tongue around his molars for any lodged bits of food. “how do you even benefit from that?” 

Jungwoo snorts and Taeil feels _attacked_. “You don’t.” He says soundly, _assuredly_ \-- it makes Taeil want to lose all primary senses. 

“Plus it’s just _fucked-up_ ” he continues, digs his fork into the blackened salmon on the plate below him, “if I’m _fucking you_ and you call out someone else's name, we’re done -- mid stroke, _what-the-fuck-ever_ , finish on your own -- take the coldest fucking shower.” 

Yuta raises a brow, chuckles a little “Does Jaehyun ever go ‘Doyoung’ while y'all are fucking?” 

Jungwoo side-eyes him from just under his fringe; it’s a dark blue color now, almost black, Taeil thinks it suits him. 

“I’m pretty sure the worry works the other way around,” Jungwoo smugly sips through his straw. And Taeil _believes_ him because Doyoung is stiff and boring, and that’s not to say Taeil is some _’Cirque du Soleil’_ freak in bed either, but he got called back at least, which means he had to be doing _something_ right. 

“Whatever,” Yuta grabs another fry, “getting back on track, how does this benefit _us_?” He waggles his brows before shoving the fry in his mouth, Taeil imagines they’re that awkward lukewarm by now, though Yuta doesn’t seem to mind. 

“It _doesn’t_.” Jungwoo’s voice is firm and finite, his eyes sharp and knowing. 

Taeil tries not to laugh in his face. 

“You’re acting like Haechan didn’t _know,_ ” he tries to keep the bite out of his voice as he says it, hears it burn through the sound anyway. 

Yuta cocks his head to the side, lets his fringe comically cascade in a shaggy diagonal across the right side of his face. Jungwoo keeps his face steady, though Taeil can almost feel the confusion of his mind. 

“I’m just saying,” Taeil grabs for his glass of ice-water with lemon. “You make it seem like Haechan didn’t know Johnny would imagine he’d be fucking Mark…” he uses his straw to slowly stir the water in the glass, could fall asleep to the sound of the ice colliding. 

Taeil watches Jungwoo blink, once, twice, before he simply goes back to picking at his food, Yuta crosses his arms with an amused huff, shakes the hair out of his eyes. 

“Fucking Haechan.” 

Taeil’s office is a lonely drafty place. There’d been a time Taeil had thought the privacy was intentional -- what if Johnny wanted to _see_ him? 

And then the weeks had passed. 

He’s come to love it -- to hate it. Always all at once. 

He eyes his doorway with bored intention, takes in Jaehyun’s tall, fit frame -- likes the bit of vibrancy it adds to the scene. 

“Jaehyun?” 

Taeil starts all their conversations like this. Meek and nervous. 

Jaehyun never matches his energy. 

“So, this whole,” Jaehyun twirls his wrist dramatically, a very Doyoung like thing to do “ _expense_ report thing.” he lifts a wad of crinkled paper, some of it stark white - new, and the others a dirty yellow - old, “I can just leave these with you, yeah?” Jaehyun moves towards his desk and plops the stack of paper in the far right corner. He’s at least had the decency to paperclip them...God is really on Taeil’s side today. 

Taeil looks up at Jaehyun from his seated position, takes in the general arrogance and magazine worthy good-looks. 

Society’s favorite son. 

“Is Doyoung busy?…” and Taeil internally winces -- hadn’t _meant_ to say that out-loud… 

No. 

He had. 

Jaehyun raises a brow, thinks on it a bit...before letting out a sigh, “he’s… _busy_ ” he squeezes out, looking confused at the notion himself. 

“You really should handle expense reports on your own,” Taeil starts, though it’s weak and spineless; he’s already started sorting through the receipts. 

Jaehyun merely smiles, shoos the suggestion away with a flip of hand, “yeah, I know, but all the coding and stuff-- and they take forever…” he crosses his arms over chest, “Doyoung typically does them for me, but since he’s busy and they’re apparently due soon...” 

“Today.” Taeil responds, lets’ the irritation seep into his voice; Jaehyun pretends to care for an entire second and Taeil thinks that must be some type of record. 

“..right, _today,_ so, I figured, might as well go to the expert.” He flashes a smile before he simply _leaves_. No ‘so thanks in advance’ or ‘I owe you one,’ left behind. And it’s not that Taeil had _expected_ any sort of acknowledgement of the inconvenience it would cause _himself_ or any sort of acknowledgement that Taeil had the _option_ to refuse, because Jaehyun’s mind didn’t work like that -- didn’t see Taeil as a person worth any sort of general respect or concern. 

And it wasn’t a _new_ thing. Jaehyun had been that way since university; had always seen the general population as a mere bother unless they were benefitting him. When people ask Jaehyun about Doyoung Taeil finds he speaks about his _partner_ in very contrived ways; it’s almost like he’s talking about some loyal Golden Retriever. ‘Doyoung follows him around', 'Doyoung does what he says on command -- is obedient.’ And likewise, in return, Doyoung talks about Jaehyun like a puppy starved for attention -- ‘he visited me,’ or ‘he wanted to eat dinner with me’ -- and Taeil understands Doyoung despite feeling _bad_ for him, because he did -- _does_ \-- the same silly, goofy shit with Johnny. 

Hadn’t realized how pathetic he must look to everyone else until he’d come to grips with that recollection that he was just as whipped. Sure, Taeil could talk shit about Doyoung, but he’d never be explicitly _different_ from him. 

And maybe he hates Doyoung because he reminds Taeil too much of how _he is_ , versus Haechan, who inspires him _to be_. 

1:52PM

Might as well get started. 

Taeil glances down and sees a bill from Pierre Gagnaire - USD $1,400 for the Lunch Menu. “Business Lunch” written in sloppy Hangul on the top of the receipt. 

This is where his raise goes. 

Taeil never stops to smell the roses, realizes it would be foolish of him -- wouldn’t help anything at all; would probably make everything worse. 

He should hate Haechan too, but can’t. Finds it silly to crucify him for trying to survive. 

And maybe the same could be said about Taeyong or Mark, but Taeil can’t be moved to give them that same courtesy. 

It could just be dramatics, or it could be absolutely necessary. Taeil’s never quite sure, doesn’t have _instincts_ that guide the way. Even if he could _attempt_ to feel bad for thinking such negative, hurtful thoughts about them, he could never feel sympathy for them. And he’s not entirely certain _how_ the inner workings of his mind compartmentalize and define these things, but it happens. He wonders if it’s the same for them. If Mark and Taeyong can feel bad about _why_ they are, but not _who_ they are. 

And Taeil _should_ be able to sympathize with that -- doesn’t. 

“Oh, Lucas, meet...” Mark’s eyes stumble across Taeil’s messy office, and the barren door. Taeil should let him suffer, but understands Lucas doesn’t _really care_ who he is. Is probably forgetting he exists concurrently with finding out he exists -- no need to keep him waiting. 

“It’s Taeil.” he rises from his seat, proffers an arm for a quick shake of the hand. Lucas' grip is firm and tight, angry and aggressive for no reason other than ‘because I can.’ Taeil smiles up at him regardless. Doesn’t need or _want_ Mark having to contrive some tall tale about how he tripped and fell and ended up with a smashed ribcage, black eye and dislocated jaw -- he imagines Lucas washing his hands in the sink as the police take Mark’s statement. 

Lucas merely nods, his eyes darting around Taeil’s space. It would _bother_ him, except he’s long past being insecure about it. 

“You don’t have an office right?” Lucas turns to Mark, a touch too happy for Taeil’s own taste, his free hand low across Mark’s waist. 

“Oh no, I don’t need all of that for what I do...” Taeil rolls his eyes, Mark is _humble_ as ever -- and he’d _almost_ had an office; Taeyong being concerned he’d have to eat in the cafeteria with the rest of the lowly interns. 

“You could probably use one though” Taeil adds on suggestively, giving Mark his best ‘knowing look’. 

Mark’s face falls and his eyes harden on Taeil in a way that _feels_ violent as Lucas laughs in the background, his head tossed and neck exposed. He pulls Mark slightly closer as he does so, stakes his claim even when it's unnecessary. 

“Well,” Mark pauses, gathers himself back into something fake and phony -- humble and innocent, “I was just giving Lucas a tour of our floor...you have a _wonderful_ day Taeil.” Mark waves as Lucas bids him a sloppy adieu. 

Taeil’s tires are slashed and flat when he goes to leave. 

“You don’t need to give me a ride,” Mark’s voice is soft and unsure; he looks ridiculous in his Northface X Supreme coat at the bus-stop. 

“Johnny asked, and it’s late -- besides, it’s not that big a deal, he says you don’t live too far?” 

“Not too far, no.” Mark’s breath creates fog in the air, his skin still glowing and his lips still glossy despite the dry air. The ugly, artificial, fluorescent glow of the orange bus-stop lights do nothing to deter him from being beautiful. 

“Come on, let’s just get this over with,” Taeil pushes -- sure, he could leave Mark here, let him be food for the unsavory characters that ride the bus this time of night, but he won’t, because Johnny (and Taeyong) will find out when Mark inevitably speaks of this harrowing and dramatic experience, where he, a chosen, beautiful boy, had to act as a mere commoner. 

Mark nods, slips into the passenger seat with what seems like practiced lightness. Taeil waits for his seatbelt to click before he drives off. 

Taeil, court jester, at your service my liege. 

“Where’s your place again?” Taeil squints at the street signs, “Insadong or something? Itaewon?” tries to remember the last time he dropped Haechan and Jaemin off at Haechan’s place. Remembers him saying Mark lived near-by. 

“Daechi-dong” Mark murmurs quietly and Taeil almost runs a red light. 

“Daechi-dong.” though it’s more a question than a statement. 

Mark looks ahead, types the address into Taeil’s GPS. 

Taeil swallows the bitterness down and turns left at the light. 

“Interns are getting paid more than I remember…” Taeil can’t help the quip. 

Jungwoo hands him his tea with firm hands and a frown, then, almost tauntingly he looks up, a small smile on his face. “They don’t get paid at all…” 

He slips into the chair across from Taeil, throws his feet up onto the coffee table -- smile wide across his face. 

“I can work for fifty _years_ and never afford to live there, and you’re telling me, because he can suck a dick pretty well, he’s living in a two-story penthouse? Fuck, _all the way off._ ” 

Jungwoo chuckles, makes a sort of contemplative face, “Well, I’m sure it’s beyond ‘pretty well’...he’s definitely in the above average category...I mean, at the very least.” 

Taeil throws him a look. 

“Well...what can you say?” Jungwoo takes a sip of his own tea, “he’s got the whole, fucking upwards thing entirely figured out…besides, who knew Johnny was such a trick?” 

Taeil almost chokes on a tea leaf -- he hates this fucking ‘organic loose leaf’ craze, he was _fine_ with the Lipton packets. 

“Johnny?” 

Jungwoo has the audacity to look absolutely nonplussed. 

“Well, who else?” He takes a bite of vanilla flavored mochi ice-cream as he says it. 

Taeil scoffs, furious and comical. “Well Lucas, _obviously._ ” he swipes a mochi from the plate. 

Jungwoo raises a brow, “that’s not really Lucas style...an apartment? Nah, that’s Johnny...that’s 100% Johnny.” 

Taeil feels sick. Because of course, Johnny had _wanted_ him to see it. 

“Haechan lives with a roommate…” Taeil takes another bite of mochi, chews more slowly. 

Jungwoo shrugs, “Yeah, but that’s different…” he finishes, like that answers _any_ of the thousands of questions in Taeil’s whirring mind. 

“How?!” Taeil fiddles with the million pillows on Jungwoo’s couch, some of the sequined ones snagging on his pajama top. 

Jungwoo shrugs again, “I don’t _know_ , it just _is_.” he shoves the remaining piece of mochi in his mouth, pushes air out of his nose as he does it, “that’s just -- I mean, how it is you know?” 

And no. Taeil, decidedly _doesn’t_ know. 

“OK, so does Jaehyun pay for this place?” And he knows that’s mean, but he’s hurt and _jealous_ and feeling entitled to being an ass. 

“He wouldn’t.” is Jungwoo’s easy reply, his eyes just a little glassy. “He wouldn’t feel the need too...I wouldn’t _want_ him too either…” 

Jungwoo stands up, his pajama bottoms dragging against the floor. “See, the problem is, you’re upset, and angry because you think Mark _wants_ to be there, you think he’s _benefiting_ from it” Jungwoo runs a hand through his hair, piles blankets and a silk covered pillow on the arm of the couch. 

“How the fuck is he _not_?” Taeil’s voice is a little louder than he’d intended. 

Jungwoo ignores him. 

“I’m sure he was more embarrassed to say he lived in Daechi-dong with no discernible income, than you were angry about him living there with no discernible income…” 

Jungwoo heads to the bathroom -- Taeil can hear the faucet running and the soft pad of slippered feet. The slight sound of brushing teeth resonates through the room. 

Jungwoo pops his head out to continue, words slightly muffled by the toothbrush. 

“See, the point is, Johnny wanted to embarrass him, and he did…” 

Cruelly, Taeil takes some measure of satisfaction at that. 

“You know,” Jungwoo sticks his head back into the bathroom, spits the toothpaste into the sink, stops the faucet, “Mark once told Jaemin Lucas made him run after the car…” 

Taeil laughs, and Jungwoo fixes him with a disappointed look. 

“I’m sorry,” Taeil starts, pulls out the toothbrush and toothpaste from his overnight duffle, a black, leather Longchamp he’d gotten from his sister on Christmas, “continue.”

“I’m just saying…” Jungwoo turns off the lights, lets the blue glow of the TV paint his face. “Imagine you’re dressed up, and I mean, the works; it’s late and you’re tired but you don’t ‘behave’ appropriately after being treated like a fucking toy for hours, and as consequence, for _one_ misstep, you have to chase after a fucking car, like some low rent hooker and a John that forgot her fucking $20.” 

Taeil tries to feel pity. It doesn’t come. 

“Must suck to suck…” he sing-songs, ignores Jungwoo’s disappointed eyes. 

“Like I said,” Jungwoo starts again, turning the heater on so Taeil won’t freeze to death in the living room, “I’m sure he was more embarrassed than you were angry.” 

He turns to leave, Taeil’s eyes following him until the door to his bedroom closes fully. 

And maybe Taeil can agree with that, except Johnny had obviously wanted to embarrass _him_ too. 

And all he’s got to show for himself is a trashcan full of condoms and a sore jaw.


	26. Doyoung: Cold

_If I only get one question, I’d sincerely like to know -- how cold is the Han river?_

“So…. _why_ is Yuta’s shit floating in the pool?” 

Doyoung glances over at WinWin who merely shrugs, his eyes rolling to the top of his head in perfect sync with the rise of his shoulders. 

“Yuta. Taeyong.” is the lazy reply as WinWin gets up from his chair, grabs his half-eaten everything bagel and takes another big-bite, “I’m getting coffee -- want some?” 

Doyoung twists his mouth to the side, gives a singular nod. WinWin smiles, grabs his plate and mug, saunters off with the nonchalance of someone who _truly_ can’t be bothered to give a damn. 

If Doyoung was _smart_ he’d adapt a similar mindset, a similar attitude, but he’s _not_ and so he continues on, _caring_ , like he’s not got anything better to do with his time. 

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me!” Ah. So Yuta _is here._

Doyoung can’t say he’s happy about it. It just means more work for _him_. 

_“Fuck this!”_ Yuta’s voice echoes through the halls, a muffled but clear string of curse words and holy proclamations, his office chair dripping chlorinated water that stinks up the hall as he rolls it behind him, his clothes are soaked through and also dripping -- Doyoung wants to sneer -- it’s a _new_ floor. 

“The lifeguard couldn’t get it for you?” Doyoung tries to be _neutral_ about it, _professional_. Yuta glares up at him, lips set in an annoyed pout. 

“Apparently it’s not part of his job description.” 

Doyoung grimaces -- he should _know_ things like that. It’s kind of amazing that he doesn’t. 

“I want to file a _complaint_.” Yuta wrings the ends of his button up, the water splashing onto Doyoung’s brogues. 

Doyoung sighs, he’s really _not_ in the mood for all of this, besides, it’s not like it’s going to _help_ anything. Johnny won’t _reprimand_ Taeyong, and Taeyong will just be even _more_ irritated. 

“What even is going on?” 

Doyoung. Master of words. 

Yuta twists the sleeves of his blazer for added dramatics. 

_“Taeyong,”_ he starts, assured and angry, “threw _all my shit into the fucking pool!_ ” 

Doyoung can’t even _pretend_ to be concerned. “And you _know_ it was him?” he presses his lips together, the sound of water dripping onto the hardwood floors like white-noise in the background. 

Seriously though, its imported wood -- Johnny is going to be pissed. 

Yuta scoffs, crosses and uncrosses his arms, “who _else_ would it be?” 

True. 

Though to be _very_ honest, it’s _exactly_ the kind of thing Johnny would do if he could be bothered. “Right…” Doyoung responds instead, uncommitted and unwilling. “Well, come talk to me when you’re…” he motions up and down at Yuta’s soaked attire, “all cleaned up.” 

“Oh, I _will_.” Yuta kicks his chair down the hallway, it bangs against the wall, and leaves a water stain against the new paint as he stalks away. 

WinWin rounds the corner, two mugs of coffee in hand -- huffs as he hands Doyoung a mug that reads “Monday, Your Mom’s a Ho.” 

“Whatever happened,” WinWin starts, his eyes shiny and bright, “it’s Yuta’s fault.” he looks pointedly at Doyoung before he starts sauntering over to his desk, “so clamp down on any inherent pity you’re likely starting to feel...” he looks back at Doyoung over his shoulder, “let him clean up his own shit.” 

Doyoung sighs, lifts the mug in acknowledgement before he scurries into his office, closing the door behind him -- reads the mug once more just to better take it in. 

“Monday, Your Mom’s a Ho.” Doyoung reads aloud. 

He chuckles. “Yeah, and a bitch too.” 

  
  


Doyoung knows people think he’s silly, foolish, a fool, an idiot. He’s not dumb, he’s not blind, he _sees_. He _knows_. Understands that it’s not _worth_ recognizing. Doyoung is -- well not _happy_ so to speak, but some semblance of content he’s prepared to live with. And he’ll take that. 

Has never felt entitled to anything beyond general contentedness. 

And he’s generally content with that too. 

And maybe he _is_ weak and spineless, but he’d never claimed to be strong and courageous in the first place, so he doesn’t know what everyone else is even on about by constantly bringing it up. He _hates_ being held to standards he hadn’t agreed to, or even alluded to. It’s obnoxious; makes him feel more insecure than he _already_ does. 

It’s not a pleasant feeling. 

And even if he _is_ a pathetic pushover, that was _his_ choice to make, a decision _he’s_ made and is happy to live with. 

And Doyoung isn't _scared of Jaehyun._

Could never be. 

Except when he is. 

“I really should get going,” Doyoung places his napkin on the table, fiddles around the narrow slits of his wallet for his credit card, and ignores Taeyong’s hardened gaze. 

“He has to get back home before his _boyfriend_ finds out he has friends,” Taeyong's voice is smooth and angelic. 

“Is that so,” Jason, or was it Jacob -- Doyoung is embarrassed to say he can’t remember -- a friend of Taeyong’s from America questions, his eyes growing wide at Doyoung’s increasing panic. 

“Just go then, if he’s going to be on your ass about it,” Taeyong is flippant and dismissive. It hurts Doyoung’s feelings, makes him feel even _more_ pathetic than normal. 

“I need to pay.” He wills the tremor out of his voice. 

Taeyong looks at him again, eyes bored and agitated. 

“Like I’m some broke loser,” Taeyong rolls his eyes dramatically -- slaps his credit card on the table. “I’ve got it, just go.” 

Doyoung slides on his coat, takes a final sip of sparkling water “I owe you one,” and he hates how cliche and dramatic it sounds; Taeyong too apparently -- he makes an annoyed, disgusted face as Doyoung zips up -- it’s a puffer from Moncler, Jaehyun had bought it for him while on a trip to Switzerland. “Please, it’s just dinner -- listen, drive safe, and tell your asshole I say be gentle.” Taeyong combs his fingers through his hair as he says it, eyes doyoung speculatively. 

Doyoung flushes at that, grabs his bag and cellphone in a bid to get away as quickly as possible. Squirms in the seat of his car on the way home. 

Doyoung knows people think he’s silly, foolish, a fool, an idiot. 

He agrees. 

  
  


Doyoung had never asked his mom if she thought he was handsome; had always figured if he were worth looking at, she’d have told him long ago. She’d certainly told his brother, had _certainly_ told Jaehyun. 

And it’s not that Doyoung was _jealous_ of that, but it’s not like he was _OK_ with being glossed over and treated like a second rate piece of shit either. If he never said anything, that’s because he’d been made to feel like he _couldn’t_. 

And maybe that’s just more fodder for the ‘Doyoung is a sniveling piece of shit crowd’ but did it really matter, especially if he felt the need to boo and throw tomatoes at himself? 

He figures _that's_ what makes him more _susceptible_ \-- the disgustingly strong chain of self-doubt and self-hate shackled to his ankle. 

And he always thinks, he hadn’t _meant_ to; but thinking it, and trying to convince himself of it, doesn’t mean he _hadn’t_ \-- doesn’t make it the _truth_. Doyoung doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ get over it -- learn to cope -- grow from it. 

“Stop beating yourself up.” Taeil places a warm glazed donut in front of him along with a grande iced-latte from Starbucks. 

Doyoung looks up, mildly offended, highly annoyed. 

“No, seriously,” Taeil seats himself on the couch in Doyoung’s office, throwing his elbow across the arm. “Whatever you’re beating yourself up over, just stop it, forget about it, it’s _done_.” 

Doyoung snorts, pushes away the donut and coffee. “That’s easy for you to say,” he wipes at his nose, can almost _feel_ himself tearing up. “You didn’t fuck _everything_ up, just cheered it on…” Doyoung lets his bitchiness shine through, doesn’t even care that it’s _unprofessional_. 

“Why do you always take responsibility for everything they do?” Taeil’s voice is firm and sure -- it _surprises_ him in a way that makes him feel ashamed. And really, it’s _obnoxious_ , Taeil of _all people_ , thinking he can come and lecture Doyoung about _anything_. Even more so about the art of ‘letting go’. 

“Taeyong thinks you’re the dumbest fucking person on the planet, you know?” he bites out, just to even the playing field. It’s wholly childish, meaning it’s entirely on-brand for Doyoung. 

Taeil merely grins, relaxes into the seat, “I’m sure he does,” he looks up at the ceiling as he says it, “but I’m not losing sleep over it,” he makes eye contact with Doyoung, “and neither should you.” 

Doyoung huffs, that feisty bit of offensive defensiveness that always rears its ugly, judgmental head. 

“I don’t lose sleep over Taeyong thinking _you’re_ an idiot.” 

Taeil smiles, it’s forced and contrived. “You’re only weak when you want to be, you know, and that’s why everyone thinks you’re a joke…” 

Doyoung snorts again, lets the smugness of a man about to make a bad decision wash over him; “right, because being saved as ‘ass-eater’ in Johnny’s phone isn’t fucking comedy…” he unlocks his computer, types in his password. 

“And I’m sure you’re saved as ‘the second best sex I’ve ever had’ in Jaehyun’s-- I’m guessing Jungwoo’s got the honor of just ‘best’.” 

Doyoung stops typing. 

“Get out.” He stands, his shoulders hunched and fist balled, “Get the _fuck_ out!” he slams his balled fist onto the table “GET OUT, GET OUT -- OUT. OUT. GET THE FUCK OUT!” He’s screeching now -- can feel the strain on his throat and the pounding in his chest. 

Taeil leaves just as quietly as he came. 

Doyoung throws up in the trash bin under his desk, goes for a walk to clear his head, tries not to think about how cold the Han river is in winter. 

  
  


“ _Fuck Taeil_ , that grimy little piece of literal shit -- he’s basically human garbage, an actual shit stain” Taeyong sips at his diet coke and angrily pokes at his Greek Salad. “He’s lying you know,” Taeyong leans over with weary eyes -- it’s as broken as Doyoung’s seen him since Mark left. 

“Jaehyun wouldn’t do that to you,” Taeyong’s voice is tired and dry, he grabs at Doyoung’s hand, squeezes it for good measure. “He wouldn’t...he wouldn’t, just trust me...Jungwoo either, they wouldn’t..” Taeyong’s voice goes raspy. “Don’t worry about it Doyoung, trust me…” 

Doyoung nods, “Should I ask him? Should I ask Jungwoo?” Doyoung can’t eat, stares down at his plate of seared tuna and arugula but doesn’t really see it. “They wouldn't, right? But why would _Taeil_ lie?” 

“Because he’s a liar!” Taeyong’s voice is a harsh, heavy and dry whisper. “He lies, that’s what he does, he makes up shit in his head so he can feel better about his own, sad, lonely, pathetic fucking life -- and he’s miserable,” Taeyong rants to impressionable ears, “he wants everyone to be miserable too -- he’s a plague.” Taeyong’s chest heaves as he finishes. 

Taeyong is so thin, it makes Doyoung worry. 

“Eat.” he pushes Taeyong’s plate closer, watches as Taeyong reluctantly goes back to picking at his salad, scoping up the tomatoes and cucumbers, scraping off the excess salad dressing. 

“Listen to me, Doyoung.” Taeyong’s silverware clanks against the porcelain, “I’m your friend, I wouldn’t lie to you,” Doyoung nods and Taeyong continues on, “There’s nothing going on between Jaehyun and Jungwoo, so don’t do anything silly OK? Promise me?” 

Doyoung nods, doesn’t even know what counts as _silly_. 

“Of course I couldn’t keep him,” Doyoung feels the tears welling in his eyes, “of _fucking course_ \-- because why would he stay with me!?” 

“Doyoung, stop it.” 

And he _hears_ Taeyong, he just isn’t _listening_ to him. 

“Doyoung? Jaehyun? DUH!” Doyoung lets out a delirious chuckle, “of course he’d never stay with me.” 

“But he’s _with you_!” Taeyong grabs Doyoung’s hand again. 

“You know,” Doyoung turns to Taeyong, eyes red and nose runny, “all the other guys, I can deal with that, I _did_ deal with it, I don’t say anything, I never _have_ \-- never _would_. I shut up, I know my place,” Doyoung wipes at his nose, “but if it’s Jungwoo,” his lets his voice crack, “I can’t do it Taeyong...if he wants Jungwoo...I don’t know what I’ll do.” 

Taeyong sighs, “he doesn’t wa-” 

“Jungwoo is supposed to be my friend...” 

“He’s _not_ , our friend.” Taeyong’s voice is harsh and cutting, his gaze far away before he collects himself, “but even still, he wouldn’t, -- you _hired_ him, he respects you, he’d never do something like that.” 

Doyoung nods though he’s not reassured. 

Can only think, if the roles were reversed, he _absolutely_ would. 

  
  


Doyoung has perfect vision that’s poor when he needs it to be. Great memory that’s shoddy when it’s convenient -- only knows what he _should_ know; he’s proud of that, and disgusted by it, all at once. 

Because it _means_ something, or would have anyway, if Doyoung had been on the right side of morality when it actually mattered -- but he hadn’t been, and so it’s moot even thinking about it. 

He’s sure Taeyong disagrees. 

And it’s not like Doyoung doesn’t _get it_ , because he _does_. Understands to the point where he could probably write a book on it, though he acknowledges that it doesn’t stop reality from being true. 

Some things, you _see_ , and some things you _say_. 

Rarely do the two meet. 

There can be no common ground. That’s not how life works. 

The things Doyoung sees, well, to be honest, at first he’s not sure what to make of it-- there is a delicate balance between assuming and concluding. 

Mark is _young_ \-- he’s broke, he’s _pretty_ \-- that doesn’t make him a whore. 

Jaemin has a _friend_ for every day of the week -- it doesn’t make him a slut. 

And so when Johnny had asked him what he’d seen between Mark and Lucas, Doyoung doesn’t make assumptions, _or_ come to conclusions -- he does something even worse. 

He tells the truth. 

“You should’ve lied!” Taeyong paces back in forth, his pants low on his hips, a sliver of skin peeking through between his pants and his short-cropped blazer. 

And Doyoung _knew_ ; had simply chosen to ignore it, because it would benefit _him_. 

Typical. 

A better version of him would be ashamed. Too bad a better version doesn’t exist. Doyoung is the prototype and evolution all in one. 

“I didn’t know what to even lie about…” he smooths his hair down as he says it. Taeyong dramatically falls back onto Doyoung’s couch, takes a pillow to his face and screams into it. 

“Well, what _should_ I have said? Maybe I can go and talk to Johnny tomorrow-” 

“It won’t work...he’ll know.” Taeyong peels his right sock off using the toes of his left foot. 

“OK, but if I just say, actually no, I think…well yeah, what should I think?” He opens his fridge, pulls out the ingredients for Pad Thai -- it’s one of Taeyong’s favorite dishes. 

“What did he ask again, exactly?” Taeyong changes into his lounge pants in the middle of the living room, stands in front of the TV in just briefs as he folds his pants. 

“He asked if I’d seen Lucas and Mark behaving inappropriately…” 

Taeyong nods, pulls his lounge pants on leg by leg, “and you said?” he concentrates on unrolling a pair of fluffy mohair type socks. 

“No, I hadn’t seen anything.” 

Taeyong’s head lolls back dramatically. “Fucking hell Doyoung…” 

Doyoung preps the garlic with a frown, “I don’t get it, don’t we say Mark _isn’t_ doing anything wrong -- isn’t that, I mean…” 

Taeyong turns towards him, now all changed, a blue velvet headband on to keep the hair out of his face. “No, because it’s a setup…” 

And if Doyoung is being truthful, he really doesn’t get it. 

“Right.” He moves to the shallots. “A setup for what?” 

Taeyong crosses his arms, face settling into a confused, annoyed grimace. 

“I don’t know.” 

  
  


“Hey Boss! Happy...almost Lunar New Year!” Jungwoo beams, he’s got a container full of Yaksik under his right arm. 

Doyoung smiles, small and limited in scope, organizes the papers on his desk as a distraction.“Yes, happy...almost, Lunar New Year to you as well…” he watches with suspicious eyes as Jungwoo opens the pyrex container and holds it out to him. 

He grabs one, just to be polite. 

“So,” Jungwoo makes himself comfortable in the chair in front of Doyoung’s desk, “got any cool plans?” he grabs his own piece of Yaksik, nibbles on a chewy corner. 

Doyoung nods, tucks a bit of hair behind his ears, “yeah, we leave for Coron tonight, going to head out to Sagnat Island” he tries to sound bored and unimpressed, though he’d almost cried when Jaehyun had haphazardly thrown the tickets on the counter and told him, _romantically_ “pack your shit.” 

“Where’s that?” Jungwoo’s tone remains light and curious, it makes Doyoung regret having dreams where he shoots his naked, sweaty body mid-orgasm. 

“Philippines.” Doyoung tries and fails to keep it light. It comes out cold and harsh, almost angry. 

Jungwoo rolls his lips together in an awkward smile and nods, “I’ve never been, take a ton of pictures so I can live vicariously through you…” 

Doyoung twirls his pen, tries not to let the words get to him. “Yeah, sure,” it’s strained and breathy. 

“Your idea?” Jungwoo throws his legs over the arm-rest, his legs dangling as he kicks his feet. 

“Why would it be _my_ idea?” Doyoung goes back to the edits he’d been making in the employee handbook based on Jungwoo’s notes -- wishes he weren’t so irritated by every little thing. 

Doyoung sees Jungwoo shrug from his peripheral, “I just assume,” he takes another bite of Yaksik, “that all the cool ideas are yours…” he smiles over at Doyoung as he says it. 

Doyoung doesn’t have an answer for that, and so he ignores it -- guesses the silence bores Jungwoo who gets up to leave after a while. 

“It’s been cold in Korea,” Jungwoo gazes behind Doyoung and out of the window; seems to admire the gray of the sky. “Han’s already started to freeze -- wonder how cold it must be down there?” 

Doyoung nods, it’s all he’s ever wanted to know. 


End file.
